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THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 


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THAT  PRINTER  OF  UDELL'S 

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THE    SHEPHERD    OF    THE     HILLS 

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THE  WINNING  OF  BARBARA  WORTH 

The  Ministry  of  Capital 

THEIR      YESTERDAYS 

An  Exaltation  of  Life  and  Lore 

THE    EYES    OF    THE    WORLD 

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Sibyl 


The  EYES  OF 
THE  WORLD 


A  NOVEL 


HAROLD   BELL  WRIGHT 


AUTHOR   OF 


"THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  HILLS'* 

"THE  WINNING  OF  BARBARA  WORTH" 

ETC.,  ETC. 


With  Illustrations  by 
F.  GRAHAM  COOTES 


THE    BOOK   SUPPLY  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS,  CHICAGO 


COPYRIGHT,  1914 
BY  HAROLD  BELL  WRIGHT 


COPYRIGHT.  1914 
BY  ELSBKRY  W.  REYNOLDS 


PUBLISHED  AUGUST,  1914 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


To 
BENJAMIN  H.  PEARSON 

STUDENT.  ARTIST.  GENTLEMAN 

in  appreciation  of  the  friendship  that  began 
on  the  "Pipe-Line  Trail, "at  the  camp  in 
the  sycamores  back  of  the  old  orchard,  and 
among  the  higher  peaks  of  the  San  Ber- 
nardinos;  and  because  this  story  will  always 
mean  more  to  him  than  to  any  one  else,  — - 
this  book,  with  all  good  wishes,  is 

DEDICATED. 

H.  B.  W. 

"Tecolote  Rancho," 
April  13,  1914. 


"/  have  learned 

To  look  on  Nature  not  as  in  the  hour 
Of  thoughtless  youth-)  but  hearing  oftentimes 
The  sad,  still  music  of  humanity , 
Not  harsh  or  grating,  though  of  ample  power 
To  chasten  and  subdue.     And  I  have  felt, 
A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts;   a  sense  sublime 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 
Whose  dwelling  is  in  the  lights  of  setting  suns, 
And  the  round  ocean  and  the  living  air, 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man. 
A  motion  and  a  spirit  that  impels 
All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thoughts, 
And  rolls  through  all  things. 

Therefore  am  I  still 
A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods 

And  mountains 

And  this  prayer  I  make, 

Knowing  that  Nature  never  did  betray 
The  heart  that  loved  her.     'TV/  her  privilege 
Through  all  the  years  of  this  one  life,  to  lead 
From  joy  to  joy;  for  she  can  so  inform 
The  mind  that  is  within  us — so  impress 
With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so  feed 
With  lofty  thoughts — that  neither  evil  tongues, 
Rash  judgments,  nor  the  sneers  of  selfish  men, 
Nor  greetings  where  no  kindness  is,  nor  all 
The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  life, 
Shall  e'er  prevail  against  us,  or  disturb 
Our  cheerful  faith. '  * 

William  Wordsworth. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     His  INHERITANCE 11 

II.     THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  DISFIGURED 

FACE 19 

III.  THE  FAMOUS  CONRAD  LAGRANGE  ....  33 

IV.  AT     THE     HOUSE     ON     F  AIRLANDS 

HEIGHTS 55 

V.     THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  ROSE  GARDEN  .  69 

VI.     AN  UNKNOWN  FRIEND 87 

VII.     MRS.  TAINE  IN  QUAKER  GRAY 97 

VIII.     THE   PORTRAIT   THAT  WAS   NOT  A 

PORTRAIT 109 

IX.     CONRAD  LAGRANGE'S  ADVENTURE.  .  .  120 

X.     A  CRY  IN  THE  NIGHT 136 

XL     Go    LOOK    IN    YOUR   MIRROR,    You 

FOOL 147 

XII.     FIRST  FRUITS  OF  His  SHAME 158 

XIII.     MYRA  WILLARD'S  CHALLENGE 164 

XIV.     IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 175 

XV.     THE  FOREST  RANGER'S  STORY 191 

XVI.     WHEN    THE    CANYON    GATES    ARE 

SHUT 204 

XVII.     CONFESSIONS  IN  THE  SPRING  GLADE.  215 
XVIII.     SIBYL    ANDRES    AND    THE    BUTTER- 
FLIES. .                                              .  225 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XIX.  THE  THREE  GIFTS  AND  THEIR  MEAN- 
INGS   231 

XX.  MYRA'S  PRAYER  AND  THE  RANGER'S 

WARNING 239 

XXI.     THE  LAST  CLIMB 248 

XXII.     SHADOWS  OF  COMING  EVENTS 258 

XXTII.  OUTSIDE  THE  CANYON  GATES  AGAIN  .  265 

XXIV.  JAMES  RUTLIDGE  MAKES  A  MISTAKE  .  269 

XXV.     ON  THE  PIPE-LINE  TRAIL 281 

XXVI.     I  WANT  You  JUST  AS  You  ARE 290 

XXVII.     THE  ANSWER 301 

XXVIH.     YOU'RE  RUINED,  MY  BOY 311 

XXIX.  THE  HAND  WRITING  ON  THE  WALL  .  .  321 

XXX.     IN  THE  SAME  HOUR 340 

XXXI.     As  THE  WORLD  SEES 345 

XXXII.  THE  MYSTERIOUS  DISAPPEARANCE.  .  358 

XXXIII.  BEGINNING  THE  SEARCH 371 

XXXIV.  THE  TRACKS  ON  GRANITE  PEAK 381 

XXXV.     A  HARD  WAY 390 

XXXVI.     WHAT  SHOULD  HE  Do  i 407 

XXXVII.     THE  MAN  WAS  INSANE 416 

XXXVIII.     AN  INEVITABLE  CONFLICT 426 

XXXIX.     THE  BETTER  WAY 432 

XL.     FACING  THE  TRUTH 440 

XLI.     MARKS  OF  THE  BEAST 453 

XLII.     AARON  KING'S  SUCCESS 459 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

FROM 

OIL  PAINTINGS 


By 
F.  GRAHAM  COOTES 

PAGE 

SIBYL Frontispiece 

A  CURIOUS  EXPRESSION  OF  BAFFLING,  QUIZZING, 
HALF  PATHETIC,  AND  WHOLLY  CYNICAL,  IN- 
TERROGATION    32 

"WELL,  WHAT  DO  YOU  WANT  ?    WHAT  ARE  YOU 

DOING  HERE  ?" 152 

STILL  SHE  DID  NOT  SPEAK  .  .  .   419 


The 
Eyes  of  the  World 


CHAPTER  I 
HIS  INHERITANCE 

T  was  winter — cold  and  snow  and  ice  and 
naked  trees  and  leaden  clouds  and  stinging 
wind. 

The  house  was  an  ancient  mansion  on 
an  old  street  in  that  city  of  culture  which 
has  given  to  the  history  of  our  nation — to 
education,  to  religion,  to  the  sciences,  and  to  the  arts 
— so  many  illustrious  names. 

In  the  changing  years,  before  the  beginning  of  my 
story,  the  woman's  immediate  friends  and  associates 
had  moved  from  the  neighborhood  to  the  newer  and 
more  fashionable  districts  of  a  younger  generation. 
In  that  city  of  her  father's  there  were  few  of  her  old 
companions  left.  There  were  fewer  who  remembered. 
The  distinguished  leaders  in  the  world  of  art  and 
letters,  whose  voices  had  been  so  often  heard  within 
the  walls  of  her  home,  had,  one  by  one,  passed  on; 
leaving  their  works  and  their  names  to  their  children. 
The  children,  in  the  greedy  rush  of  these  younger 

11 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

times,  had  too  readily  forgotten  the  woman  who,  ta 
the  culture  and  genius  of  a  passing  day,  had  been 
hostess  and  friend. 

The  apartment  was  pitifully  bare  and  empty. 
Ruthlessly  it  had  beeT1  stripped  of  its  treasures  of  art 
and  its  proud  luxuries.  But,  even  in  its  naked  neces- 
sities, the  room  managed,  still,  to  evidence  the  rare 
intelligence  and  the  exquisite  refinement  of  its  dying 
tenant. 

The  face  upon  the  pillow,  so  wasted  by  sickness, 
was  marked  by  the  death-gray.  The  eyes,  deep  in 
their  hollows  between  the  fleshless  forehead  and  the 
prominent  cheek-bones,  were  closed;  the  lips  were 
livid ;  the  nose  was  sharp  and  pinched ;  the  colorless 
cheeks  were  sunken;  but  the  outlines  were  still  deli- 
cately drawn  and  the  proportions  nobly  fashioned. 
It  was,  still,  the  face  of  a  gentlewoman.  In  the  ashen 
lips,  only,  was  there  a  sign  of  life ;  and  they  trembled 
and  fluttered  in  their  effort  to  utter  the  words  that  an 
indomitable  spirit  gave  them  to  speak. 

"To-day — to-day — he  will — come."  The  voice  was 
a  thin,  broken  whisper ;  but  colored,  still,  with  pride 
and  gladness. 

A  young  woman  in  the  uniform  of  a  trained  nurse 
turned  quickly  from  the  window.  With  soft,  profes- 
sional step,  she  crossed  the  room  to  bend  over  the  bed. 
Her  trained  fingers  sought  the  skeleton  wrist;  she 
spoke  slowly,  distinctly,  with  careful  clearness;  and, 
under  the  cool  professionalism  of  her  words,  there 
was  a  tone  of  marked  respect.  "What  is  it,  madam  ?" 

The  sunken  eyes  opened.  As  a  burst  of  sunlight 
through  the  suddenly  opened  doors  of  a  sepulchre, 

12 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOULD 

the  death-gray  face  was  illumed.  In  those  eyes,  clear 
and  burning,  the  nurse  saw  all  that  remained  of  a 
powerful  personality.  In  their  shadowy  depths,  she 
saw  the  last  glowing  embers  of  the  vital  fire  gathered ; 
carefully  nursed  and  tended ;  kept  alive  by  a  will  that 
was  clinging,  with  almost  superhuman  tenacity,  to  a 
definite  purpose.  Dying,  this  woman  would  not  die 
— could  not  die — until  the  end  for  which  she  willed 
to  live  should  be  accomplished.  In  the  very  grasp  of 
Death,  she  was  forcing  Death  to  stay  his  hand — 
without  life,  she  was  holding  Death  at  bay. 

It  was  magnificent,  and  the  gentle  face  under  the 
nurse's  cap  shone  with  appreciation  and  admiration 
as  she  smiled  her  sympathy  and  understanding. 

"My  son — my  son — will  come — to-day."  The  voice 
was  stronger,  and,  with  the  eyes,  expressed  a  convic- 
tion— a  certainty — with  the  faintest  shadow  of  a 
question.  «, 

The  nurse  looked  at  her  watch.  "The  boat  was 
due  in  New  York,  early  this  morning,  madam." 

A  step  sounded  in  the  hall  outside.  The  nurse 
started,  and  turned  quickly  toward  the  door.  But  the 
woman  said,  "The  doctor."  And,  again,  the  fire  that 
burned  in  those  sunken  eyes  was  hidden  wearily 
under  their  dark  lids. 

The  white-haired  physician  and  the  nurse,  at  the 
farther  end  of  the  room,  spoke  together  in  low  tones. 
Said  the  physician, — incredulous, — "You  say  there 
is  no  change  ?" 

"None  that  I  can  detect,"  breathed  the  nurse.  "It 
is  wonderful !" 

"Her  mind  is  clear  ?" 

13 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

"As  though  she  were  in  perfect  health." 
The  doctor  took  the  nurse's  chart.  For  a  moment, 
he  studied  it  in  silence.  He  gave  it  back  with  a 
gesture  of  amazement.  "God!  nurse,"  he  whispered, 
"she  should  be  in  her  grave  by  now !  It's  a  miracle ! 
But  she  has  always  been  like  that — "  he  continued, 
half  to  himself,  looking  with  troubled  admiration 
toward  the  bed  at  the  other  end  of  the  room — 


He  went  slowly  forward  to  the  chair  that  the  nurse 
placed  for  him.  Seating  himself  quietly  beside  his 
patient,  and  bending  forward  with  intense  interest, 
his  fine  old  head  bowed,  he  regarded  with  more  than 
professional  care  the  wasted  face  upon  the  pillow. 

The  doctor  remembered,  too  well,  when  those  finely 
moulded  features — now,  so  worn  by  sorrow,  so 
marked  by  sickness,  so  ghastly  in  the  hue  of  death — 
were  rounded  with  young-woman  health  and  tinted 
with  rare  loveliness.  He  recalled  that  day  when  he 
saw  her  a  bride.  He  remembered  the  sweet,  proud 
dignity  of  her  young  wifehood.  He  saw  her,  again, 
when  her  face  shone  with  the  glad  triumph  and  the 
holy  joy  of  motherhood. 

The  old  physician  turned  from  his  patient,  to  look 
with  sorrowful  eyes  about  the  room  that  was  to  wit- 
ness the  end. 

Why  was  such  a  woman  dying  like  this  ?  Why  was 
a  life  of  such  rich  mental  and  spiritual  endowments 
— of  such  wealth  of  true  culture — coming  to  its  close 
in  such  material  poverty  ? 

The  doctor  was  one  of  the  few  who  knew.    He  was 


14 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

one  of  the  few  who  understood  that,  to  the  woman 
herself,  it  was  necessary. 

There  were  those  who — without  understanding, 
for  the  sake  of  the  years  that  were  gone — would  have 
surrounded  her  with  the  material  comforts  to  which, 
in  her  younger  days,  she  had  been  accustomed.  The 
doctor  knew  that  there  was  one — a  friend  of  her 
childhood,  famous,  now,  in  the  world  of  books — who 
would  have  come  from  the  ends  of  the  earth  to  care 
for  her.  All  that  a  human  being  could  do  for  her,  in 
those  days  of  her  life's  tragedy,  that  one  had  done. 
Then — because  he  understood — he  had  gone  away. 
Her  own  son  did  not  know — could  not,  in  his  young 
manhood,  have  understood,  if  he  had  known — would 
not  understand  when  he  came.  Perhaps,  some  day, 
he  would  understand — perhaps. 

When  the  physician  turned  again  toward  the  bed, 
to  touch  with  gentle  fingers  the  wrist  of  his  patient, 
his  eyes  were  wet. 

At  his  touch,  her  eyes  opened  to  regard  him  with 
affectionate  trust  and  gratitude. 

"Well  Mary,"  he  said  almost  bruskly. 

The  lips  fashioned  the  ghost  of  a  smile;  into  her 
eyes  came  the  gleam  of  that  old  time  challenging 
spirit.  "Well — Doctor  George,"  she  answered.  Then, 
— "I — told  you — I  would  not — go — until  he  came. 
I  must — have  my  way — still — you  see.  He  will — 
come — to-day.  He  must  come." 

"Yes,  Mary,"  returned  the  doctor, — his  fingers 
still  on  the  thin  wrist,  and  his  eyes  studying  her  face 
with  professional  keenness, — "yes,  of  course." 


15 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

"And  George — you  will  not  forget — your  premise  ? 
You  will — give  me  a  few  minutes — of  strength — 
when  he  comes — so  that  I  can  tell  him  ?  I — I — must 
tell  him  myself — George.  You — will  do — this  last 
thing — for  me?" 

"Yes,  Mary,  of  course,"  he  answered  again. 
"Everything  shall  be  as  you  wish — as  I  promised." 

"Thank  you — George.  Thank  you — my  dear — 
dear — old  friend." 

The  nurse — who  had  been  standing  at  the  win- 
dow— stepped  quickly  to  the  table  that  held  a  few 
bottles,  glasses,  and  instruments.  The  doctor  looked 
at  her  sharply.  She  nodded  a  silent  answer,  as  she 
opened  a  small,  flat,  leather  case.  With  his  fingers 
still  on  his  patient's  wrist,  the  physician  spoke  a 
word  of  instruction;  and,  in  a  moment,  the  nurse 
placed  a  hypodermic  needle  in  his  hand. 

As  the  doctor  gave  the  instrument,  again,  to  his 
assistant,  a  quick  step  sounded  in  the  hall  outside. 

The  patient  turned  her  head.  Her  eager  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  the  door;  her  voice — stronger,  now, 
with  the  strength  of  the  powerful  stimulant — rang 
out ;  "My  boy — my  boy — he  is  here !  George,  nurse, 
my  boy  is  here !" 

The  door  opened.  A  young  man  of  perhaps 
twenty-two  years  stood  on  the  threshold. 

The  most  casual  observer  would  have  seen  that  he 
was  a  son  of  the  dying  woman.  In  the  full  flush 
of  his  young  manhood's  vigor,  there  was  the  same 
modeling  of  the  mouth,  the  same  nose  with  finely 
turned  nostrils,  the  same  dark  eyes  under  a  breadth 
of  forehead ;  while  the  determined  chin  and  the 

16 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

;weP  ]uared  jaw,  together  with  a  rather  remarkable 
fineness  of  line,  told  of  an  inherited  mental  and  spir- 
itual strength  and  grace  as  charming  as  it  is,  in  these 
days,  rare.  His  dress  was  that  of  a  gentleman  of 
culture  and  social  position.  His  very  bearing  evi- 
denced that  he  had  never  been  without  means  to 
gratify  the  legitimate  tastes  of  a  cultivated  and 
refined  intelligence. 

As  he  paused  an  instant  in  the  open  door  to 
glance  about  that  poverty  stricken  room,  a  look  of 
bewildering  amazement  swept  over  his  handsome 
face.  He  started  to  draw  back — as  if  he  had  unin- 
tentionally entered  the  wrong  apartment.  Looking 
at  the  doctor,  his  lips  parted  as  if  to  apologize  for 
his  intrusion.  But  before  he  could  speak,  his  eyes 
met  the  eyes  of  the  woman  on  the  bed. 

With  a  cry  of  horror,  he  sprang  forward; — 
"Mother!  Mother!" 

As  he  knelt  there  by  the  bed,  when  the  first  mo- 
ments of  their  meeting  were  past,  he  turned  his 
face  toward  the  doctor.  From  the  physician  his  gaze 
went  to  the  nurse,  then  back  again  to  his  mother's 
old  friend.  His  eyes  were  burning  with  shame  and 
sorrow — with  pain  and  doubt  and  accusation.  His 
low  voice  was  tense  with  emotion,  as  he  demanded, 
"What  does  this  mean?  Why  is  my  mother  here 
like — like  this?" — his  eyes  swept  the  bare  room 
again. 

The  dying  woman  answered.  "I  will  explain,  my 
boy.  It  is  to  tell  you,  that  I  have  waited." 

At  a  look  from  the  doctor,  the  nurse  quietly  fol- 
lowed the  physician  from  the  room. 

17 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

It  was  not  long.  When  she  had  finished,  the  false 
strength  that  had  kept  the  woman  alive  until  she 
had  accomplished  that  which  she  conceived  to  be 
her  last  duty,  failed  quickly. 

"You  will — promise — you  will  ?" 

"Yes,  mother,  yes." 

"Your  education — your  training — your  blood — 
they — are — all — that — I  can — give  you,  my  son." 

"O  mother,  mother!  why  did  you  not  tell  me 
before  ?  Why  did  I  not  know !"  The  cry  was  a 
protest — an  expression  of  bitterest  shame  and  sor- 
row. 

She  smiled.  "It — was — all  that  I  could  do — for 
you — my  son — the  only  way — I  could — help.  I  do 
not — regret  the  cost.  You  will — not  forget  ?" 

"Never,  mother,  never." 

"You  promise — to — to  regain  that — which — your 
father—" 

Solemnly  the  answer  came, — in  an  agony  of  devo- 
tion and  love, — "I  promise — yes,  mother,  I  promise." 

A  month  later,  the  young  man  was  traveling,  as 
fast  as  modern  steam  and  steel  could  carry  him, 
toward  the  western  edge  of  the  continent. 

He  was  flying  from  the  city  of  his  birth,  as  from 
a  place  accursed.  He  had  set  his  face  toward  a  new 
land — determined  to  work  out,  there,  his  promise — 
the  promise  that  he  did  not,  at  the  first,  understand. 

How  he  misunderstood, — how  he  attempted  to  use 
his  inheritance  to  carry  out  what  he  first  thought 
was  his  mother's  wish, — and  how  he  came  at  last  to 
understand,  is  the  story  that  I  have  to  tell. 

18 


CHAPTEK  II 
THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  DISFIGURED  FACE 

HE  Golden  State  Limited,  with  two  labor- 
ing engines,  was  climbing  the  desert  side 
of  San  Gorgonio  Pass. 

Now  San  Gorgonio  Pass — as  all  men 
should  know — is  one  of  the  two  eastern 
gateways  to  the  beautiful  heart  of  South- 
ern California.  It  is,  therefore,  the  gateway  to  the 
scenes  of  my  story. 

As  the  heavy  train  zigzagged  up  the  long,  barren 
slope  of  the  mountain,  in  its  effort  to  lessen  the  heavy 
grade,  the  young  man  on  the  platform  of  the  obser- 
vation car  could  see,  far  to  the  east,  the  shimmering, 
sun-filled  haze  that  lies,  always,  like  a  veil  of  mystery, 
over  the  vast  reaches  of  the  Colorado  Desert.  Now 
and  then,  as  the  Express  swung  around  the  curves, 
he  gained  a  view  of  the  lonely,  snow-piled  peaks  of 
the  San  Bernardinos ;  with  old  San  Gorgonio,  lifting 
above  the  pine-fringed  ridges  of  the  lower  Galenas, 
shining,  silvery  white,  against  the  blue.  Again,  on 
the  southern  side  of  the  pass,  he  saw  San  Jacinto's 
crags  and  cliffs  rising  almost  sheer  from  the  right- 
of-way. 

But  the  man  watching  the  ever-changing  panorama 
of  gorgeously  colored  and  fantastically  unreal  land- 
scape was  not  thinking  of  the  scenes  that,  to  him, 

19 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

-were  new  and  strange.  His  thoughts  were  far  away. 
Among  those  mountains  grouped  about  San  Gorgonio, 
the  real  value  of  the  inheritance  he  had  received  from 
his  mother  was  to  be  tested.  On  the  pine-fringed 
ridge  of  the  Galenas,  among  those  granite  cliffs  and 
jagged  peaks,  the  mettle  of  his  manhood  was  to  be 
tried  under  a  strain  such  as  few  men  in  this  common- 
place, work-a-day  old  world  are  subjected  to.  But 
the  young  man  did  not  know  this. 

On  the  long  journey  across  the  continent,  he  had 
paid  little  heed  to  the  sights  that  so  interested  his 
fellow  passengers.  To  his  fellow  passengers,  them- 
selves, he  had  been  as  indifferent.  To  those  who  had 
approached  him  casually,  as  the  sometimes  tedious 
hours  passed,  he  had  been  quietly  and  courteously 
unresponsive.  This  well-bred  but  decidedly  marked 
disinclination  to  mingle  with  them,  together  with  the 
undeniably  distinguished  appearance  of  the  young 
man,  only  served  to  center  the  interest  of  the  little 
world  of  the  Pullmans  more  strongly  upon  him. 
Keeping  to  himself,  and  engrossed  with  his  own 
thoughts,  he  became  the  object  of  many  idle  con- 
jectures. 

Among  the  passengers  whose  curious  eyes  were 
so  often  turned  in  his  direction,  there  was  one  whose 
interest  was  always  carefully  veiled.  She  was  a 
woman  of  evident  rank  and  distinction  in  that 
world  where  rank  and  distinction  are  determined 
wholly  by  dollars  and  by  such  social  position  as 
dollars  can  buy.  She  was  beautiful ;  but  with  that 
carefully  studied,  wholly  self-conscious — one  is 
tempted  to  say  professional — beauty  of  her  kind. 

20 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOULD 

Her  full  rounded,  splendidly  developed  body  was 
gowned  to  accentuate  the  alluring  curves  of  her  sex. 
With  such  skill  was  this  deliberate  appeal  to  the 
physical  hidden  under  a  cloak  of  a  pretending  mod- 
esty that  its  charm  was  the  more  effectively  revealed. 
Her  features  were  almost  too  perfect.  She  was  too 
coldly  sure  of  herself — too  perfectly  trained  in  the 
art  of  self -repression.  For  a  woman  as  young  as  she 
evidently  was,  she  seemed  to  know  too  much.  The 
careful  indifference  of  her  countenance  seemed  to  say, 
"I  am  too  well  schooled  in  life  to  make  mistakes." 
She  was  traveling  with  two  companions — a  fluffy, 
fluttering,  characterless  shadow  of  womanhood,  and 
a  man — an  invalid  who  seldom  left  the  privacy  of 
the  drawing-room  which  he  occupied. 

As  the  train  neared  the  summit  of  the  pass,  the 
young  man  on  the  observation  car  platform  looked 
at  his  watch.  A  few  miles  more  and  he  would 
arrive  at  his  destination.  Rising  to  his  feet,  he 
drew  a  deep  breath  of  the  glorious,  sun-filled  air. 
With  his  back  to  the  door,  and  looking  away  into 
the  distance,  he  did  not  notice  the  woman  who, 
stepping  from  the  car  at  that  moment,  stood  directly 
behind  him,  steadying  herself  by  the  brass  railing 
in  front  of  the  window.  To  their  idly  observing 
fellow  passengers,  the  woman,  too,  appeared  inter- 
ested in  the  distant  landscape.  She  might  have  been 
looking  at  the  only  other  occupant  of  the  platform. 
The  passengers,  from  where  they  sat,  could  not 
have  told. 

As  he  stood  there, — against  the  background  of  the 
primitive,  many-colored  landscape, — the  young  man 

21 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOKLD 

might  easily  have  attracted  the  attention  of  any  one. 
He  would  have  attracted  attention  in  a  crowd.  Tall, 
with  an  athletic  trimness  of  limb,  a  good  breadth  of 
shoulder,  and  a  fine  head  poised  with  that  natural, 
unconscious  pride  of  the  well-bred — he  kept  his  feet 
on  the  unsteady  platform  of  the  car  with  that  easy 
grace  which  marks  only  well-conditioned  muscles,  and 
is  rarely  seen  save  in  those  whose  lives  are  sanely 
clean. 

The  Express  had  entered  the  yards  at  the  summit 
station,  and  was  gradually  lessening  its  speed.  Just 
as  the  man  turned  to  enter  the  car,  the  train  came  to 
a  full  stop,  and  the  sudden  jar  threw  him  almost 
into  the  arms  of  the  woman.  For  an  instant,  while 
he  was  struggling  to  regain  his  balance,  he  was  so 
close  to  her  that  their  garments  touched.  Indeed,  he 
only  prevented  an  actual  collision  by  throwing  his 
arm  across  her  shoulder  and  catching  the  side  of  the 
car  window  against  which  she  was  leaning. 

In  that  moment,  while  his  face  was  so  close  to 
hers  that  she  might  have  felt  his  breath  upon  her 
cheek  and  he  was  involuntarily  looking  straight  into 
her  eyes,  the  man  felt,  queerly,  that  the  woman  was 
not  shrinking  from  him.  In  fact,  one  less  occupied 
with  other  thoughts  might  have  construed  her  bold, 
open  look,  her  slightly  parted  lips  and  flushed  cheeks, 
as  a  welcome — quite  as  though  she  were  in  the  habit 
of  having  handsome  young  men  throw  themselves 
into  her  arms. 

Then,  with  a  hint  of  a  smile  in  his  eyes,  he  was 
saying,  conventionally,  "I  beg  your  pardon.  It  was 
very  stupid  of  me." 

22 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

As  he  spoke,  a  mask  of  cold  indifference  slipped 
over  her  face.  Without  deigning  to  notice  his  cour- 
teous apology,  she  looked  away,  and,  moving  to  the 
railing  of  the  platform,  became  ostensibly  interested 
in  the  busy  activity  of  the  railroad  yards. 

Had  the  woman — in  that  instant  when  his  arm  was 
over  her  shoulder  and  his  eyes  were  looking  into 
hers — smiled,  the  incident  would  have  slipped 
quickly  from  his  mind.  As  it  was,  the  flash-like  im- 
pression of  the  moment  remained,  and — 

Down  the  steep  grade  of  the  narrow  San  Timateo 
Canyon,  on  the  coast  side  of  the  mountain  pass,  the 
Overland  thundered  on  the  last  stretch  of  its  long 
race  to  the  western  edge  of  the  continent.  And  now, 
from  the  car  windows,  the  passengers  caught  tan- 
talizing glimpses  of  bright  pastures  with  their  herds 
of  contented  dairy  cows,  and  with  their  white  ranch 
buildings  set  in  the  shade  of  giant  pepper  and  euca- 
lyptus trees.  On  the  rounded  shoulders  and  steep 
flanks  of  the  foothills  that  form  the  sides  of  the 
canyon,  the  barley  fields  looked  down  upon  the 
meadows ;  and,  now  and  then,  in  the  whirling  land- 
scape, winding  side  canyons — beautiful  with  live- 
oak  and  laurel,  with  greasewood  and  sage — led  the 
eye  away  toward  the  pine-fringed  ridges  of  the  Ga- 
lenas; while  above,  the  higher  snow-clad  peaks  and 
domes  of  the  San  Bernardinos  still  shone  coldly 
against  the  blue. 

In  the  Pullman,  there  was  a  stir  of  awakening  in- 
terest. The  travel-wearied  passengers,  laying  aside 
books  and  magazines  and  cards,  renewed  conversa- 
tions that,  in  the  last  monotonous  hours  of  the  desert 

23 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

part  of  the  journey,  had  lagged  painfully.  Through- 
out the  train,  there  was  an  air  of  eager  expectancy ;  a 
bustling  movement  of  preparation.  The  woman  of 
the  observation  car  platform  had  disappeared  into 
her  stateroom.  The  young  man  gathered  his  things 
together  in  readiness  to  leave  the  train  at  the  next 
stop. 

In  the  flying  pictures  framed  by  the  windows,  the 
dairy  pastures  and  meadows  were  being  replaced  by 
small  vineyards  and  orchards;  the  canyon  wall,  on 
the  northern  side,  became  higher  and  steeper,  shut- 
ting out  the  mountains  in  the  distance  and  showing 
only  a  fringe  of  trees  on  the  sharp  rim ;  while  against 
the  gray  and  yellow  and  brown  and  green  of  the 
chaparral  on  the  steep,  untilled  bluffs,  shone  the 
silvery  softness  of  the  olive  trees  that  border  the 
arroyo  at  their  feet 

With  a  long,  triumphant  shriek,  the  flying  overland 
train — from  the  lands  of  ice  and  snow — from  barren 
deserts  and  lonely  mountains — rushed  from  the  nar- 
row mouth  of  the  canyon,  and  swept  out  into  the 
beautiful  San  Bernardino  Valley  where  the  travelers 
were  greeted  by  wide,  green  miles  of  orange  and 
lemon  and  walnut  and  olive  groves — by  many  acres 
of  gardens  and  vineyards  and  orchards.  Amid  these 
groves  and  gardens,  the  towns  and  cities  are  set; 
their  streets  and  buildings  half  hidden  in  wildernesses 
of  eucalyptus  and  peppers  and  palms ;  while — tower- 
ing above  the  loveliness  of  the  valley  and  visible  now 
from  the  sweeping  lines  of  their  foothills  to  the 
gleaming  white  of  their  lonely  peaks — rises,  in  blue- 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

veiled,  cloud-flecked  steeps  and  purple  shaded 
canyons,  the  beauty  and  grandeur  of  the  mountains. 

It  was  January.  To  those  who  had  so  recently 
left  the  winter  lands,  the  Southern  California  scene 
— so  richly  colored  with  its  many  shades  of  living 
green,  so  warm  in  its  golden  sunlight — seemed  a 
dream  of  fairyland.  It  was  as  though  that  break  in 
the  mountain  wall  had  ushered  them  suddenly  into 
another  world — a  world,  strange,  indeed,  to  eyes 
accustomed  to  snow  and  ice  and  naked  trees  and 
leaden  clouds. 

Among  the  many  little  cities  half  concealed  in 
the  luxurious,  semi-tropical  verdure  of  the  wide 
valley  at  the  foot  of  the  mountains,  Fairlands — if 
you  ask  a  citizen  of  that  well-known  mecca  of  the 
tourist — is  easily  the  Queen.  As  for  that!  all  our 
Southern  California  cities  are  set  in  wildernesses  of 
beauty ;  all  are  in  wide  valleys ;  all  are  at  the  foot  of 
the  mountains ;  all  are  meccas  for  tourists ;  each  one 
— if  you  ask  a  citizen — is  the  Queen.  If  you,  per- 
chance, should  question  this  fact — write  for  our 
advertising  literature. 

Passengers  on  the  Golden  State  Limited — as  per- 
haps you  know — do  not  go  direct  to  Fairlands.  They 
change  at  Fairlands  Junction.  The  little  city,  itself, 
is  set  in  the  lap  of  the  hills  that  form  the  southern 
side  of  the  valley,  some  three  miles  from  the  main 
line.  It  is  as  though  this  particular  "Queen"  with- 
drew from  the  great  highway  traveled  by  the  vulgar 
herd — in  the  proud  aloofness  of  her  superior  clay, 
sufficient  unto  herself.  The  soil  out  of  which  Fair- 
lands  is  made  is  much  richer,  it  is  said,  than  the 

25 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

common  dirt  of  her  sister  cities  less  than  fifteen  miles 
distant.  A  difference  of  only  a  few  feet  in  elevation 
seems,  strangely,  to  give  her  a  much  more  rarefied 
air.  Her  proudest  boast  is  that  she  has  a  larger  num- 
ber of  millionaires  in  proportion  to  her  population 
than  any  other  city  in  the  land. 

It  was  these  peculiar  and  well-known  advantages 
of  Fairlands  that  led  the  young  man  of  my  story  to 
select  it  as  the  starting  point  of  his  worthy  ambition. 
And  Fairlands  is  a  good  place  for  one  so  richly  en- 
dowed with  an  inheritance  that  cannot  be  expressed 
in  dollars  to  try  his  strength.  Given  such  a  com 
munity,  amid  such  surroundings,  with  a  man  like 
the  young  man  of  my  story,  and  something  may  be 
depended  upon  to  happen. 

While  the  travelers  from  the  East,  bound  for 
Fairlands,  were  waiting  at  the  Junction  for  the 
local  train  that  would  take  them  through  the  orange 
groves  to  their  journey's  end,  the  young  man  noticed 
the  woman  of  the  observation  car  platform  with  her 
two  companions.  And  now,  as  he  paced  to  and  fro, 
enjoying  the  exercise  after  the  days  of  confinement 
in  the  Pullman,  he  observed  them  with  stimulated 
interest — they,  too,  were  going  to  Fairlands. 

The  man  of  the  party,  though  certainly  not  old  in 
years,  was  frightfully  aged  by  dissipation  and  dis- 
ease. The  gross,  sensual  mouth  with  its  loose-hang- 
ing lips;  the  blotched  and  clammy  skin;  the  pale, 
•watery  eyes  with  their  inflamed  rims  and  flabby 
pouches;  the  sunken  chest,  skinny  neck  and  limbs; 
and  the  thin  rasping  voice — all  cried  aloud  the  shame 
of  a  misspent  life.  It  was  as  clearly  evident  that  he 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

was  a  man  of  wealth  and,  in  the  eyes  of  the  world, 
of  an  enviable  social  rank. 

As  the  young  man  passed  and  repassed  them,  where 
they  stood  under  the  big  pepper  tree  that  shades  the 
depot,  the  man — in  his  harsh,  throaty  whisper,  be- 
tween spasms  of  coughing — was  cursing  the  train 
service,  the  country,  the  weather;  and,  apparently, 
whatever  else  he  could  think  of  as  being  worthy  or 
unworthy  his  impotent  ill-temper.  The  shadowy 
suggestion  of  womanhood — glancing  toward  the 
young  man — was  saying,  with  affected  giggles,  "O 
papa,  don't !  Oh  isn't  it  perfectly  lovely !  O  papa, 
don't !  Do  hush !  What  will  people  think  ?"  This 
last  variation  of  his  daughter's  plaint  must  have 
given  the  man  some  satisfaction,  at  least,  for  it  fur- 
nished him  another  target  for  his  pointless  shafts; 
and  he  fairly  outdid  himself  in  politely  damning 
whoever  might  presume  to  think  anything  at  all 
of  him ;  with  the  net  result  that  two  Mexicans,  who 
were  loafing  near  enough  to  hear,  grinned  with  ad- 
miring amusement.  The  woman  stood  a  little  apart 
from  the  others.  Coldly  indifferent  alike  to  the 
man's  cursing  and  coughing  and  to  the  daughter's 
ejaculations,  she  appeared  to  be  looking  at  the  moun- 
tains. But  the  young  man  fancied  that,  once  or  twice, 
as  he  faced  about  at  the  end  of  his  beat,  her  eyes 
were  turned  in  his  direction. 

When  the  Fairlands  train  came  in,  the  three  found 
seats  conveniently  turned,  near  the  forward  end  of 
the  car.  The  young  man,  in  passing,  glanced  down ; 
and  the  woman,  who  had  taken  the  chair  next  to  the 
aisle,  looked  up  full  into  his  face. 

27 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

Again,  as  their  eyes  met,  the  man  felt — as  when 
they  had  stood  so  close  together  on  the  platform  of 
the  observation  car — that  she  did  not  shrink  from 
him.  It  was  only  for  an  instant.  Then,  glancing 
about  for  a  seat,  he  saw  another  face — a  face,  in  its 
outlines,  so  like  the  one  into  which  he  had  just  looked, 
and  yet  so  different — so  far  removed  in  its  expres- 
sion and  meaning — that  it  fixed  his  attention  in- 
stantly— compelling  his  interest. 

As  this  woman  sat  looking  from  the  car  window 
away  toward  the  distant  mountain  peaks,  the  young 
man  thought  he  had  never  seen  a  more  perfect  profile ; 
nor  a  countenance  that  expressed  such  a  beautiful 
blending  of  wistful  longing,  of  patient  fortitude,  and 
saintly  resignation.  It  was  the  face  of  a  Madonna, — 
but  a  Madonna  after  the  crucifixion, — pathetic  in 
its  lonely  sorrow,  inspiring  in  its  spiritual  strength, 
and  holy  in  its  purity  and  freedom  from  earthly 
passions. 

She  was  near  his  mother's  age;  and  looking  at 
her — as  he  moved  down  the  aisle — his  mother's  face, 
as  he  had  known  it  before  their  last  meeting,  came 
to  him  with  startling  vividness.  For  an  instant,  he 
paused,  moved  to  take  the  chair  beside  her;  but  the 
next  two  seats  were  vacant,  and  he  had  no  excuse 
for  intruding.  Arranging  his  grips,  he  quickly 
seated  himself  next  to  the  window;  and  again,  with 
eager  interest,  turned  toward  the  woman  in  the 
chair  ahead.  Involuntarily,  he  started  with  astonish- 
ment and  pity. 

The  woman — still  gazing  from  the  window  at  the 
distant  mountain  peaks,  and  semingly  unconscious 

28 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

of  her  surroundings — presented  now,  to  the  man's 
shocked  and  compassionate  gaze,  the  other  side  of 
her  face.  It  was  hideously  disfigured  by  a  great 
scar  that — covering  the  entire  cheek  and  neck — 
distorted  the  corner  of  the  mouth,  drew  down  the 
lower  lid  of  the  eye,  and  twisted  her  features  into  an 
ugly  caricature.  Even  the  ear,  half  hidden  under 
the  soft,  gray-threaded  hair,  had  not  escaped,  but 
was  deformed  by  the  same  dreadful  agent  that  had 
wrought  such  ruin  to  one  of  the  loveliest  counte- 
nances the  man  had  ever  looked  upon. 

When  the  train  stopped  at  Fairlands,  and  the 
passengers  crowded  into  the  aisle  to  make  their  way 
out,  of  the  characters  belonging  to  my  story,  the 
woman  with  the  man  and  his  daughter  went  first. 
Following  them,  a  half  car-length  of  people  between, 
went  the  woman  with  the  disfigured  face. 

On  the  depot  platform,  as  they  moved  toward  the 
street,  the  young  man  still  held  his  place  near  the 
woman  who  had  so  awakened  his  pitying  interest. 
The  three  Overland  passengers  were  met  by  a  heavy- 
faced,  thick-necked  man  who  escorted  them  to  a 
luxurious  touring  car. 

The  invalid  and  his  daughter  had  entered  the  auto- 
mobile when  their  escort,  in  turning  toward  the  other 
member  of  the  party,  saw  the  woman  with  the  dis- 
figured face — who  was  now  quite  near.  Instantly, 
he  paused.  And  there  was  a  smile  of  recognition  on 
his  somewhat  coarse  features  as,  lifting  his  hat,  he 
bowed  with — the  young  man  fancied — condescend- 
ing politeness.  The  woman  standing  by  his  side  with 
her  hand  upon  the  door  of  the  automobile,  seeing  her 

29 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

companion  saluting  some  one,  turned — and  the  next 
moment,  the  two  women,  whose  features  seemed  so 
like — jet  so  unlike — were  face  to  face. 

The  young  man  saw  the  woman  with  the  disfig- 
ured face  stop  short.  For  an  instant,  she  stood  as 
though  dazed  by  an  unexpected  blow.  Then,  holding 
out  her  hands  with  a  half-pleading,  half-groping 
gesture,  she  staggered  and  would  have  fallen  had  he 
not  stepped  to  her  side. 

"Permit  me,  madam;  you  are  ill." 

She  neither  spoke  nor  moved;  but,  with  her  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  woman  by  the  automobile,  allowed  him 
to  support  her — seemingly  unconscious  of  his  pres- 
ence. And  never  before  had  the  young  man  seen 
such  anguish  of  spirit  written  in  a  human  counte- 
nance. 

The  one  who  had  saluted  her,  advanced — as  though 
to  offer  his  services.  But,  as  he  moved  toward  her, 
she  shrank  back  with  a  low — "No,  no !"  And  such 
a  look  of  horror  and  fear  came  into  her  eyes  that  the 
man  by  her  side  felt  his  muscles  tense  with  indig- 
nation. 

Looking  straight  into  the  heavy  face  of  the 
stranger,  he  said  curtly,  "I  think  you  had  better  go 
on." 

With  a  careless  shrug,  the  other  turned  and  went 
back  to  the  automobile,  where  he  spoke  in  a  low  tone 
to  his  companions. 

The  woman,  who  had  been  watching  with  a  cold 
indifference,  stepped  into  the  car.  The  man  took  his 
seat  by  the  chauffeur.  As  the  big  machine  moved 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

away,  the  woman  with  the  disfigured  face,  again 
made  as  if  to  stretch  forth  her  hands  in  a  pleading 
gesture. 

The  young  man  spoke  pityingly;  "May  I  assist 
you  to  a  carriage,  madam  ?" 

At  his  words,  she  looked  up  at  him  and — seeming 
to  find  in  his  face  the  strength  she  needed — answered 
in  a  low  voice,  "Thank  you,  sir ;  I  am  better  now.  I 
will  be  all  right,  presently,  if  you  will  put  me  on  the 
car."  She  indicated  a  street-car  that  was  just  stop- 
ping at  the  crossing. 

"Are  you  quite  sure  that  you  are  strong  enough?" 
he  asked  kindly,  as  he  walked  with  her  toward  the 
car. 

"Yes," — with  a  sad  attempt  to  smile, — "yes>  and 
I  thank  you  very  much,  sir,  for  your  gentle  courtesy." 

He  assisted  her  up  the  step  of  the  car,  and  stood 
with  bared  head  as  she  passed  inside,  and  the  con- 
ductor gave  the  signal. 

The  incident  had  attracted  little  attention  from 
the  passengers  who  were  hurrying  from  the  train. 
Their  minds  were  too  intent  upon  other  things  to 
more  than  glance  at  this  little  ripple  on  the  surface 
of  life.  Those  who  had  chanced  to  notice  the 
woman's  agitation  had  seen,  also,  that  she  was  being 
cared  for ;  and  so  had  passed  on,  giving  the  scene  no 
second  thought. 

When  the  man  returned  from  the  street  to  his  grips 
on  the  depot  platform,  the  hacks  and  hotel  buses  were 
gone.  As  he  stood  looking  about,  questioningly,  for 
some  one  who  might  direct  him  to  a  hotel,  his  eyes 


31 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

fell  upon  a  strange  individual  who  was  regarding 
him  intently. 

Fully  six  feet  in  height,  the  observer  was  so  lean 
that  he  suggested  the  unpleasant  appearance  of  a  liv- 
ing skeleton.  His  narrow  shoulders  were  so  rounded, 
his  form  was  so  stooped,  that  the  young  man's  first 
thought  was  to  wonder  how  tall  he  would  really  be  if 
he  could  stand  erect.  His  long,  thin  face,  seamed 
and  lined,  was  striking  in  its  grotesque  ugliness. 
From  under  his  craggy,  scowling  brows,  his  sharp 
green-gray  eyes  peered  with  a  curious  expression  of 
baffling,  quizzing,  half  pathetic,  and  wholly  cynical, 
interrogation.  He  was  smoking  a  straight,  much- 
used  brier  pipe.  At  his  feet,  lay  a  beautiful  Irish 
Setter  dog. 

Half  hidden  by  a  supporting  column  of  the  depot 
portico — as  if  to  escape  the  notice  of  the  people  in 
the  automobile — he  had  been  watching  the  woman 
with  the  disfigured  face,  with  more  than  casual  in- 
terest. He  turned,  now,  upon  the  young  man  who 
had  so  kindly  given  her  assistance. 

In  answer  to  the  stranger's  inquiry,  with  a  curt 
sentence  and  a  nod  of  his  head  he  directed  him  to  a 
hotel — two  blocks  away. 

Thanking  him,  the  young  man,  carrying  his  grips, 
set  out.  Upon  reaching  the  street,  he  involuntarily 
turned  to  look  back. 

The  oddly  appearing  character  had  not  moved 
from  his  place,  but  stood,  still  looking  after  the 
stranger — the  brier  pipe  in  his  mouth,  the  Irish 
Setter  at  his  feet. 


A  curious  expression  of  baffling,  quizzing,  half  pathetic,  and  wholly 
cynical,  interrogation 


CHAPTER  III 
THE  FAMOUS  CONRAD  LAGRANGE 

HEN  the  young  man  reached  the  hotel,  he 
went  at  once  to  his  room,  where  he  passed 
the  time  between  the  hour  of  his  arrival 
and  the  evening  meal. 

Upon  his  return  to  the  lobby,  the  first 
object  that  attracted  his  eyes  was  the 
uncouth  figure  of  the  man  whom  he  had  seen  at  the 
depot,  and  who  had  directed  him  to  the  hotel. 

That  oddly  appearing  individual,  his  brier  pipe 
still  in  his  mouth  and  the  Irish  Setter  at  his  feet, 
was  standing — or  rather  lounging — at  the  clerk's 
counter,  bending  over  the  register ;  an  attitude  which 
— making  his  skeleton-like  form  more  round  shoul- 
dered than  ever — caused  him  to  present  the  general 
outlines  of  a  rude  interrogation  point. 

In  the  dining-room,  a  few  minutes  later,  the  two 
men  sat  at  adjoining  tables;  and  the  young  man 
heard  his  neighbor  bullying  the  waiters  and  com- 
menting, in  an  audible  undertone,  upon  every  dish 
that  was  served  to  him — swearing  by  all  the  heathen 
gods,  known  and  unknown,  that  there  was  nothing  fit 
to  eat  in  the  house;  and  that  if  it  were  not  for  the 
fact  that  there  was  no  place  else  in  the  cursed  town 
that  served  half  so  good,  he  would  not  touch  a  mouth- 
ful in  the  place.  Then,  to  the  other's  secret  amuse- 
ment, he  fell  to  right  heartily  and  made  an  astonish- 

33 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

ing  meal  of  the  really  excellent  viands  he  had  so 
roundly  vilified. 

Dinner  over,  the  young  man  went  with  his  cigar 
to  the  long  veranda;  intent  upon  enjoying  the  restful 
quiet  of  the  evening  after  the  tiresome  days  on  the 
train.  Carrying  a  chair  to  an  unoccupied  corner,  he 
had  his  cigar  just  nicely  under  way  when  the  Irish 
Setter — with  all  the  dignity  of  his  royal  blood — 
approached.  Resting  a  seal-brown  head,  with  its  long 
silky  ears,  confidently  upon  the  stranger's  knee,  the 
dog  looked  up  into  the  man's  face  with  an  expression 
of  hearty  good-fellowship  in  his  soft,  golden-brown 
eyes  that  was  irresistible. 

"Good  dog,"  said  the  man,  heartily,  "good  old  fel- 
low," and  stroked  the  sleek  head  and  neck,  affection- 
ately. 

A  whiff  of  pipe  smoke  drifted  over  his  shoulder, 
and  he  looked  around.  The  dog's  master  stood  just 
behind  him;  regarding  him  with  that  quizzing,  half 
pathetic,  half  humorous,  and  altogether  cynical 
expression. 

The  young  man  who  had  been  so  unresponsive  to 
the  advances  of  his  fellow  passengers,  for  some  reason 
— unknown,  probably,  to  himself — now  took  the 
initiative.  "You  have  a  fine  dog  here,  sir,"  he  said 
encouragingly. 

Without  replying,  the  other  turned  away  and  in 
another  moment  returned  with  a  chair;  whereupon 
the  dog,  with  slightly  waving,  feathery  tail,  trans- 
ferred his  attention  to  his  master. 

Caressing  the  seal-brown  head  with  a  gentle  hand, 
and  apparently  speaking  to  the  soft  eyes  that  looked 

34 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

up  at  him  so  understandingly,  the  man  said,  "If  the 
human  race  was  fit  to  associate  with  such  dogs,  the 
world  would  be  a  more  comfortable  place  to  live  in." 
The  deep  voice  that  rumbled  up  from  some  unguessed 
depths  of  that  sunken  chest  was  remarkable  in  its 
suggestion  of  a  virile  power  that  the  general  appear- 
ance of  the  man  seemed  to  deny.  Facing  his  com- 
panion suddenly,  he  asked  with  a  direct  bluntness, 
"Are  you  not  Aaron  King — son  of  the  Aaron  King 
of  N"ew  England  political  fame  ?" 

Under  the  searching  gaze  of  those  green-gray  eyes, 
the  young  man  flushed.  "Yes;  my  father  was  active 
in  New  England  politics,"  he  answered  simply.  "Did 
you  know  him  ?" 

"Very  well"— returned  the  other— "very  well." 
He  repeated  the  two  words  with  a  suggestive  em- 
phasis; his  eyes — with  that  curious,  baffling,  ques- 
tioning look — still  fixed  upon  his  companion's  face. 

The  red  in  Aaron  King's  cheeks  deepened. 

Looking  away,  the  strange  man  added,  with  a 
softer  note  in  his  rough  voice,  "I  thought  I  knew  you, 
when  I  saw  you  at  the  depot.  Your  mother  and  I 
were  boy  and  girl  together.  There  is  a  little  of  her 
face  in  yours.  If  you  have  as  much  of  her  character, 
you  are  to  be  congratulated — and — so  are  the  rest 
of  us."  The  last  words  were  spoken,  apparently,  to 
the  dog;  who,  still  looking  up  at  him,  seemed  to 
express  with  slow-waving  tail,  an  understanding  of 
thoughts  that  were  only  partly  put  into  words. 

There  was  an  impersonality  in  the  man's  person- 
alities that  made  it  impossible  for  the  subject  of  his 
observations  to  take  offense. 

35 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

Aaron  King — when  it  was  evident  that  the  man 
had  no  thought  of  introducing  himself — said,  witk 
the  fine  courtesy  that  seemed  always  to  find  expres- 
sion in  his  voice  and  manner,  "May  I  ask  your  name, 
sir?" 

The  other,  without  turning  his  eyes  from  the  dog, 
answered,  "Conrad  Lagrange." 

The  young  man  smiled.  "I  am  very  pleased  to 
meet  you,  Mr.  Lagrange.  Surely,  you  are  not  the 
famous  novelist  of  that  name  ?" 

"And  why,  'surely  not'  ?"  retorted  the  other,  again 
turning  his  face  quickly  toward  his  companion.  "Am 
I  not  distinguished  enough  in  appearance?  Do  I 
look  like  the  mob?  True,  I  am  a  scrawny,  hump- 
backed, crooked-faced,  scarecrow  of  a  man — but  what 
matters  that,  if  I  do  not  look  like  the  mob  ?  What  is 
called  fame  is  as  scrawny  and  humpbacked  and 
crooked-faced  as  my  body — but  what  matters  that? 
Famous  or  infamous — to  not  look  like  the  mob  is  the 
thing." 

It  is  impossible  to  put  in  print  the  peculiar  humor 
of  pathetic  regret,  of  sarcasm  born  of  contempt,  of 
intolerant  intellectual  pride,  that  marked  the  last 
sentence,  which  was  addressed  to  the  dog,  as  though 
the  speaker  turned  from  his  human  companion  to  a 
more  worthy  listener. 

When  Aaron  King  could  find  no  words  to  reply, 
the  novelist  shot  another  question  at  him,  with  start- 
ling suddenness.  "Do  you  read  my  books  ?" 

The  other  began  a  halting  answer  to  the  effect  that 
everybody  read  Conrad  Lagrange's  books.  But  the 
distinguished  author  interrupted;  "Don't  take  the 

36 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

trouble  to  lie — out  of  politeness.  I  shall  ask  you  to 
tell  me  about  them  and  you  will  be  in  a  hole." 

The  young  man  laughed  as  he  said,  with  straight- 
forward frankness,  "I  have  read  only  one,  Mr. 
Lagrange." 

"Which  one  ?" 

"The — ah — why — the  one,  you  know — where  the 
husband  of  one  woman  falls  in  love  with  the  wife 
of  another  who  is  in  love  with  the  husband  of  some 
one  else.  Pshaw! — what  is  the  title?  I  mean  the 
one  that  created  such  a  furore,  you  know." 

"Yes" — said  the  man,  to  his  dog — "O  yes,  Czar — 
I  am  the  famous  Conrad  Lagrange.  I  observe" — 
he  added,  turning  to  the  other,  with  twinkling  eyes — 
"I  observe,  Mr.  King,  that  you  really  do  have  a  good 
bit  of  your  mother's  character.  That  you  do  not  read 
my  books  is  a  recommendation  that  I,  better  than 
any  one,  know  how  to  appreciate."  The  light  of 
humor  went  from  his  face,  suddenly,  as  it  had  come. 
Again  he  turned  away ;  and  his  deep  voice  was  gentle 
as  he  continued,  "Your  mother  is  a  rare  and  beautiful 
spirit,  sir.  Knowing  her  regard  for  the  true  and 
genuine, — her  love  for  the  pure  and  beautiful, — I 
scarcely  expected  to  find  her  son  interested  in  the 
realism  of  my  fiction.  I  congratulate  you,  young 
man" —  he  paused;  then  added  with  indescribable 
bitterness — "that  you  have  not  read  my  books." 

For  a  few  moments,  Aaron  King  did  not  answer. 
At  last,  with  quiet  dignity,  he  said,  "My  mother  was 
a  remarkable  woman,  Mr.  Lagrange." 

The  other  faced  him  quickly.  "You  say  was?  Do 
jou  mean — ?" 

37 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

"My  mother  is  dead,  sir.  I  was  called  home  from 
abroad  by  her  illness." 

For  a  little,  the  older  man  sat  looking  into  the 
gathering  dusk.  Then,  deliberately,  he  refilled  his 
brier  pipe,  and,  rising,  said  to  his  dog,  "Come,  Czar 
— it's  time  to  go." 

Without  a  word  of  parting  to  his  human  com- 
panion, with  the  dog  moving  sedately  by  his  side,  he 
disappeared  into  the  darkness  of  the  night. 


All  the  next  day,  Aaron  King — in  the  hotel  din- 
ing-room, the  lobby,  and  on  the  veranda — watched 
for  the  famous  novelist.  Even  on  the  streets  of  the 
little  city,  he  found  himself  hoping  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  the  uncouth  figure  and  the  homely,  world-worn 
face  of  the  man  whose  unusual  personality  had  so 
attracted  him.  The  day  was  nearly  gone  when  Con- 
rad Lagrange  again  appeared.  As  on  the  evening 
before,  the  young  man  was  smoking  his  after-dinner 
cigar  on  the  veranda,  when  the  Irish  Setter  and  a 
whiff  of  pipe  smoke  announced  the  strange  character's 
presence. 

Without  taking  a  seat,  the  novelist  said,  "I  always 
have  a  look  at  the  mountains,  at  this  time  of  the  day, 
Mr.  King — would  you  care  to  come?  These  moun- 
tains are  the  real  thing,  you  know,  and  well  worth 
seeing — particularly  at  this  hour."  There  was  a 
gentle  softness  in  his  deep  voice,  now — as  unlike  his 
usual  speech  as  his  physical  appearance  was  unlike 
that  of  his  younger  companion. 


38 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOKLD 

Aaron  King  arose  quickly.  "Thank  you,  Mr. 
Lagrange;  I  will  go  with  pleasure." 

Accompanied  by  the  dog,  they  followed  the  avenue, 
under  the  giant  pepper  trees  that  shut  out  the  sky 
with  their  gnarled  limbs  and  gracefully  drooping 
branches,  to  the  edge  of  the  little  city;  where  the 
view  to  the  north  and  northeast  was  unobstructed  by 
houses.  Just  where  the  street  became  a  road,  Conrad 
Lagrange — putting  his  hand  upon  his  companion's 
arm — said  in  a  low  voice,  "This  is  the  place." 

Behind  them,  beautiful  Fairlands  lay,  half  lost,  in 
its  wilderness  of  trees  and  flowers.  Immediately  in 
the  foreground,  a  large  tract  of  unimproved  land 
brought  the  wild  grasses  and  plants  to  their  very  feet. 
Beyond  these  acres — upon  which  there  were  no  trees 
— the  orange  groves  were  massed  in  dark  green 
blocks  and  squares;  with,  here  and  there,  thin  rows 
of  palms ;  clumps  of  peppers ;  or  tall,  plume-like 
eucalyptus ;  to  mark  the  roads  and  the  ranch  homes. 
Beyond  this — and  rising,  seemingly,  out  of  the 
groves — the  San  Bernardinos  heaved  their  mighty 
masses  into  the  sky.  It  was  almost  dark.  The  city's 
lamps  were  lighted.  The  outlines  of  grove  and  gar- 
den were  fast  being  lost  in  the  deepening  dusk.  The 
foothills,  with  the  lower  spurs  and  ridges  of  the 
mountains,  were  softly  modeled  in  dark  blue  against 
the  deeper  purple  of  the  canyons  and  gorges.  Upon 
the  cloudless  sky  that  was  lighted  with  clearest 
saffron,  the  lines  of  the  higher  crests  were  sharply 
drawn;  while  the  lonely,  snow-capped  peaks, — ten 
thousand  feet  above  the  darkening  valley  below, — 
catching  the  last  rays  of  the  sun,  glowed  rose-pink — 

39 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

changing  to  salmon — deepening  into  mauve — as  the 
light  failed. 

Aaron  King  broke  the  silence  by  drawing  a  long 
breath — as  one  who  could  find  no  words  to  express 
his  emotions. 

Conrad  Lagrange  spoke  sadly ;  "And  to  think  that 
there  are, — in  this  city  of  ten  thousand, — probably, 
nine  thousand  nine  hundred  and  ninety  people  who 
never  see  it." 

With  a  short  laugh,  the  young  man  said,  "It  makes 
my  fingers  fairly  itch  for  my  palette  and  brushes — 
though  it's  not  at  all  my  sort  of  thing." 

The  other  turned  toward  him  quickly.  "You  are 
an  artist  ?" 

"I  had  just  completed  my  three  years  study  abroad 
when  mother's  illness  brought  me  home.  I  was  for- 
tunate enough  to  get  one  on  the  line,  and  they  say 
— over  there — that  I  had  a  good  chance.  I  don't 
know  how  it  will  go  here  at  home."  There  was  a 
note  of  anxiety  in  his  voice. 

"What  do  you  do  ?" 

"Portraits." 

With  his  face  again  toward  the  mountains,  the 
novelist  said  thoughtfully,  "This  West  country  will 
produce  some  mighty  artists,  Mr.  King.  By  far  the 
greater  part  of  this  land  must  remain,  always,  in  its 
primitive  naturalness.  It  will  always  be  easier,  here, 
than  in  the  city  crowded  East,  for  a  man  to  be  him- 
self. There  is  less  of  that  spirit  which  is  born  of 
clubs  and  cliques  and  clans  and  schools — with  their 
fine-spun  theorizing,  and  their  impudent  assumption 


40 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOULD 

that  they  are  divinely  commissioned  to  sit  in  judg- 
ment. There  is  less  of  artistic  tea-drinking,  esthetic 
posing,  and  soulful  talk;  and  more  opportunity  for 
that  loneliness  out  of  which  great  art  comes.  The 
atmosphere  of  these  mountains  and  deserts  and  seas 
inspires  to  a  self-assertion,  rather  than  to  a  clinging 
fast  to  the  traditions  and  culture  of  others — and  what, 
after  all,  is  a  great  artist,  but  one  who  greatly  asserts 
himself?" 

The  younger  man  answered  in  a  like  vein;  "Mr. 
Lagrange,  your  words  recall  to  my  mind  a  thought  in 
one  of  mother's  favorite  books.  She  quoted  from  the 
volume  so  often  that,  as  a  youngster,  I  almost  knew  it 
by  heart,  and,  in  turn,  it  became  my  favorite.  Indeed, 
I  think  that,  with  mother's  aid  as  an  interpreter,  it 
has  had  more  influence  upon  my  life  than  any  other 
one  book.  This  is  the  thought  jf^To  understand  the 
message  of  the  mountains;  to  love  them  for  what 
they  are;  and,  in  terms  of  every-day  life,  to  give 
expression  to  that  understanding  and  love — is  a  mark 
ofjrue  greatness  of  soul.S  I  do  not  know  the  author. 
The  book  is  anonymous. 

"I  am  the  author  of  that  book,  sir,"  the  strange 
man  answered  with  simple  dignity,  " — or,  rather, — 
I  should  say, — I  was  the  author,"  he  added,  with  a 
burst  of  his  bitter,  sarcastic  humor.  "For  God's  sake 
don't  betray  me.  I  am,  now,  the  famous  Conrad  La- 
grange,  you  understand.  I  have  a  name  to  protect" 
His  deep  voice  was  shaken  with  feeling.  His  worn 
and  rugged  features  twitched  and  worked  with 
emotion. 


41 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

Aaron  King  listened  in  amazement  to  the  words 
that  were  spoken  by  the  famous  novelist  with  such 
pathetic  regret  and  stinging  self-accusation.  Not 
knowing  how  to  reply,  he  said  casually,  "You  are 
working  here,  Mr.  Lagrange  ?" 

"Working!  Me?  I  don't  work  anywhere.  I  am 
a  literary  scavenger.  I  haunt  the  intellectual  slaugh- 
ter pens,  and  live  by  the  putrid  offal  that  self-respect- 
ing writers  reject.  I  glean  the  stinking  materials 
for  my  stories  from  the  sewers  and  cesspools  of  life. 
For  the  dollars  they  pay,  I  furnish  my  readers  with 
those  thrills  that  public  decency  forbids  them  to 
experience  at  first  hand.  I  am  a  procurer  for  the 
purposes  of  mental  prostitution.  My  books  breed 
moral  pestilence  and  spiritual  disease.  The  unholy 
filth  I  write  fouls  the  minds  and  pollutes  the  imagina- 
tions of  my  readers.  I  am  an  instigator  of  degrading 
immorality  and  unmentionable  crimes.  Work!  No, 
young  man,  I  don't  work.  Just  now,  I'm  doing 
penance  in  this  damned  town.  My  rotten  imaginings 
have  proven  too  much — even  for  me — and  the  doctors 
sent  me  West  to  recuperate." 

The  artist  could  find  no  words  that  would  answer. 
In  silence,  the  two  men  turned  away  from  the  moun- 
tains, and  started  back  along  the  avenue  by  which 
they  had  come. 

When  they  had  walked  some  little  distance,  the 
young  man  said,  "This  is  your  first  visit  to  Fairlands, 
Mr.  Lagrange?" 

"I  was  here  last  year" — answered  the  other — 
"here  and  in  the  hills  yonder.  Have  you  been  much 
in  the  mountains  ?" 

42 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOKLD 

"Not  in  California.  This  is  my  first  trip  to  the 
West.  I  have  seen  something  of  the  mountains, 
though,  at  tourist  resorts — abroad." 

"Which  means,"  commented  the  other,  "that  you 
have  never  seen  them  at  all." 

Aaron  King  laughed.    "I  dare  say  you  are  right." 

"And  you —  ?"  asked  the  novelist,  abruptly,  eyeing 
his  companion.  "What  brought  you  to  this  commu- 
nity that  thinks  so  much  more  of  its  millionaires  than 
it  does  of  its  mountains  ?  Have  you  come  to  Fair- 
lands  to  work?" 

"I  hope  to,"  answered  the  artist.  "There  are — 
there  are  reasons  why  I  do  not  care  to  work,  for  the 
present,  in  the  East.  I  confess  it  was  because  I 
understood  that  Fairlands  offered  exceptional  oppor- 
tunities for  a  portrait  painter  that  I  came  here.  To 
succeed  in  my  work,  you  know,  one  must  come  in 
touch  with  people  of  influence.  It  is  sometimes  easier 
to  interest  them  when  they  are  away  from  their  homes 
— in  some  place  like  this — where  their  social  duties 
and  business  cares  are  not  so  pressing." 

"There  is  no  question  of  the  material  that  Fair- 
lands  has  to  offer,  Mr.  King,"  returned  the  novelist, 
in  his  grim,  sarcastic  humor.  "God!  how  I  envy 
you !"  he  added,  with  a  flash  of  earnest  passion. 
"You  are  young — You  are  beginning  your  life  work 
— You  are  looking  forward  to  success — You — " 

"I  must  succeed" — the  painter  interrupted  im- 
petuously— "I  must." 

"Succeed  in  what?     What  do  you  mean  by  suc- 


43 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOULD 

"Surely,  you  should  understand  what  I  mean  bj 
success,"  the  younger  man  retorted.  "You  who  have 
gained — " 

"Oh,  yes ;  I  forgot" — came  the  quick  interruption 
— "I  am  the  famous  Conrad  Lagrange.  Of  course, 
you,  too,  must  succeed.  You  must  become  the  famous 
Aaron  King.  But  perhaps  you  will  tell  me  why  yon 
must,  as  you  call  it,  succeed  ?" 

The  artist  hesitated  before  answering;  then  said 
with  anxious  earnestness,  "I  don't  think  I  can  ex- 
plain, Mr.  Lagrange.  My  mother — "  he  paused. 

The  older  man  stopped  short,  and,  turning,  stood 
for  a  little  with  his  face  towards  the  mountains 
where  San  Bernardino's  pyramid-like  peak  was 
thrust  among  the  stars.  When  he  spoke,  every  bit  of 
that  bitter  humor  was  gone  from  his  deep  voice.  "I 
beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  King" — he  said  slowly — "I  am 
as  ugly  and  misshapen  in  spirit  as  in  body." 

But  when  they  had  walked  some  way — again  in 
silence — and  were  drawing  near  the  hotel,  the  mo- 
mentary change  in  his  mood  passed.  In  a  tone  of 
stinging  sarcasm  he  said.  "You  are  on  the  right  road, 
Mr.  King.  You  did  well  to  come  to  Fairlands.  It 
is  quite  evident  that  you  have  mastered  the  modern 
technic  of  your  art.  To  acquire  fame,  you  have  only 
to  paint  pictures  of  fast  women  who  have  no  morals 
at  all — making  them  appear  as  innocent  maidens, 
because  they  have  the  price  to  pay,  and,  in  the  eyes 
of  the  world,  are  of  social  importance.  Put  upon 
your  canvases  what  the  world  will  call  portraits  of 
distinguished  citizens — making  low-browed  money- 
thugs  to  look  like  noble  patriots,  and  bloody  butchers 

44 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOELD 

of  humanity  like  benevolent  saints.  You  need  give 
yourself  no  uneasiness  about  your  success.  It  is  easy. 
Get  in  with  the  right  people;  use  your  family  name 
and  your  distinguished  ancestors;  pull  a  few  judi- 
cious advertising  wires ;  do  a  few  artistic  stunts ;  get 
yourself  into  the  papers  long  and  often,  no  matter 
how ;  make  yourself  a  fad ;  become  a  pet  of  the  social 
autocrats — and  your  fame  is  assured.  And — you  will 
be  what  I  am." 

The  young  man,  quietly  ignoring  the  humor  of  the 
novelist's  words,  said  protestingly,  "But,  surely,  to 
portray  human  nature  is  legitimate  art,  Mr.  La- 
grange.  Your  great  artists  that  the  West  is  to  pro- 
duce will  not  necessarily  be  landscape  painters  or 
write  essays  upon  nature,  will  they  ?" 

"To  portray  human  nature  is  legitimate  work  for 
an  artist,  yes" — agreed  the  novelist — "but  he  must 
portray  human  nature  plus.  ( The  forces  that  shape 
human  nature  are  the  forces  that  must  be  felt  in  the 
picture  and  in  the  story.^  That  these  determining 
forces  are  so  seldom  seen  by  the  eyes  of  the  world, 
is  the  reason  for  pictures  and  stories.  The  artist  who 
fails  to  realize  for  his  world  the  character-creating 
elements  in  the  life  which  he  essays  to  paint  or  write, 
fails,  to  just  that  degree,  in  being  an  artist;  or  is 
self-branded  by  his  work  as  criminally  careless,  a 
charlatan  or  a  liar.  \  That  one  who,  for  a  price,  pre- 
sents a  picture  or  a  story  without  regard  for  the 
influence  of  his  production  upon  the  characters  of 
those  who  receive  it,  commits  a  crime  for  which 
human  law  provides  no  adequate  punishment.  Being 
the  famous  Conrad  Lagrange,  you  understand,  I  hare 

45 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

the  right  to  say  this.  You  will  probably  believe  it, 
some  day — if  you  do  not  now.  That  is,  you  will 
believe  it  if  you  have  the  soul  and  the  intelligence 
of  an  artist — if  you  have  not — it  will  not  matter — 
and  you  will  be  happy  in  your  success." 

As  the  novelist  finished  speaking,  the  two  men 
arrived  at  the  hotel  steps,  where  they  halted,  with 
that  indecision  of  chance  acquaintances  who  have  no 
plans  beyond  the  passing  moment,  yet  who,  in  mutual 
interest,  would  extend  the  time  of  their  brief  com- 
panionship. While  they  stood  there,  each  hesitating 
to  make  the  advance,  a  big  touring  car  rolled  up  the 
driveway,  and  stopped  under  the  full  light  of  the 
veranda.  Aaron  King  recognized  the  lady  of  the 
observation  car  platform,  with  her  two  traveling  com- 
panions, and  the  heavy-faced  man  who  had  met  them 
at  the  depot.  As  the  party  greeted  the  novelist  and 
he  returned  their  salutation,  the  artist  turned  away 
to  find  again  the  chair,  where,  an  hour  before,  the 
strange  character  who  was  to  play  so  large  a  part  in 
his  life  and  work  had  found  him.  The  dog,  Czar,  as 
if  preferring  the  companionship  of  the  artist  to  the 
company  of  those  who  were  engaging  his  master's 
attention,  followed  the  young  man. 

From  where  he  sat,  the  painter  could  see  the  tall, 
uncouth  figure  of  the  famous  novelist  standing 
beside  the  automobile,  while  the  occupants  of  the  car 
were,  apparently,  absorbingly  interested  in  what  he 
was  saying.  The  beautiful  face  of  the  woman  was 
brightly  animated  as  she  evidently  took  the  lead  in 
the  conversation.  The  artist  could  see  her  laughing 
and  shaking  her  head.  Once,  he  even  heard  her  speak 

46 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOULD 

the  writer's  name;  whereupon,  every  lounger  upon 
the  veranda,  within  hearing,  turned  to  observe  the 
party  with  curious  interest.  Several  times,  the  young 
man  noted  that  she  glanced  in  his  direction,  half 
inquiringly,  with  a  suggestion  of  being  pleased,  as 
though  she  were  glad  to  have  seen  him  in  company 
with  her  celebrated  friend.  Then  the  man  who  held 
so  large  a  place  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  drew  back, 
lifting  his  hat ;  the  automobile  started  forward ;  the 
party  called,  "Good  night."  The  woman's  voice  rose 
clear — so  that  the  spectators  might  easily  understand 
• — "Remember,  Mr.  Lagrange — I  shall  expect  you 
Thursday — day  after  to-morrow." 

As  Conrad  Lagrange  came  up  the  hotel  steps,  the 
eyes  of  all  were  upon  him ;  but  he — apparently  uncon- 
scious of  the  company — went  straight  to  the  artist; 
where,  without  a  word,  he  dropped  into  the  vacant 
chair  by  the  young  man's  side,  and  began  thought- 
fully refilling  his  brier  pipe.  Flipping  the  match 
over  the  veranda  railing,  and  expelling  a  prodigious 
cloud  of  smoke,  the  novelist  said  grimly,  "And  there 
— my  fellow  artist — go  your  masters.  I  trust  you 
observed  them  with  proper  reverence.  I  would  have 
introduced  you,  but  I  do  not  like  to  take  the  initiative 
in  such  outrages.  That  will  come  soon  enough.  The 
young  should  be  permitted  to  enjoy  their  freedom 
while  they  may." 

Aaron  King  laughed.  "Thank  you  for  your  con- 
sideration," he  returned,  "but  I  do  not  think  I  am 
in  any  immediate  danger." 

"Winch" — the  other  retorted  dryly — "betrays 
either  innocence,  caution,  or  an  unusual  understand- 

47 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

ing  of  life.  I  am  not,  now,  prepared  to  say  whether 
you  know  too  much  or  too  little." 

"I  confess  to  a  degree  of  curiosity,"  said  the  artist. 
"I  traveled  in  the  same  Pullman  with  three  of  the 
party.  May  I  ask  the  names  of  your  friends  ?" 

The  other  answered  in  his  bitterest  vein ;  "I  have 
no  friends,  Mr.  King — I  have  only  admirers.  As  for 
their  names" — he  continued — "there  is  no  reason 
why  I  should  withhold  either  who  they  are  or  what 
they  are.  Besides,  I  observed  that  the  reigning 
'Goddess'  in  the  realm  of  'Modern  Art'  has  her  eye 
upon  you,  already.  As  I  shall  very  soon  be  com- 
manded to  drag  you  to  her  'Court,'  it  is  well  for  you 
to  be  prepared." 

The  young  man  laughed  as  the  other  paused  to 
puff  vigorously  at  his  brier  pipe. 

"That  red-faced,  bull-necked  brute,  is  James  Rut- 
lidge,  the  son  and  heir  of  old  Jim  Rutlidge,"  con- 
tinued the  novelist.  "Jim  inherited  a  few  odd 
millions  from  his  father,  and  killed  himself  spending 
them  in  unmentionable  ways.  The  son  is  most 
worthily  carrying  out  his  father's  mission,  with 
bright  prospects  of  exceeding  his  distinguished 
parent's  fondest  dreams.  But,  unfortunately,  he  is 
hampered  by  lack  of  adequate  capital — the  bulk  of 
the  family  wealth  having  gone  with  the  old  man." 

"Do  you  mean  James  Rutlidge — the  great  critic  ?" 
exclaimed  Aaron  King,  with  increased  interest. 

"The  same,"  answered  the  other,  with  his  twisted 
smile.  "I  thought  you  would  recognize  his  name. 
AB  an  artist,  von  will  undoubtedly  have  much  to  do 
with  him.  His  friendship  is  one  of  the  things  that 

48 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

are  vital  to  your  success.  Believe  me,  his  power  in 
modern  art  is  a  red-faced,  bull-necked  power  that  you 
will  do  well  to  recognize.  Of  his  companions,"  he 
went  on,  "the  horrible  example  is  Edward  J.  Taine — 
a  friend  and  fellow  martyr  of  James  Rutlidge, 
Senior.  Satan,  perhaps,  can  explain  how  he  has 
managed  to  outlive  his  partner.  His  home  is  in  New 
York,  but  he  has  a  big  house  on  Fairlands  Heights, 
with  large  orange  groves  in  this  district.  He  comes 
here  winters  for  his  health.  He'll  die  before  long. 
The  effervescing  young  creature  is  his  daughter, 
Louise — by  his  first  wife.  The  'Goddess' — who  is 
not  much  older  than  his  daughter — is  the  present 
Mrs.  Taine." 

"His  wife!" 

The  artist's  exclamation  drew  a  sarcastic  chuckle 
from  the  other.  "I  am  prepared,  now,  to  testify  to 
your  unworldly  innocence  of  heart  and  mind,"  he 
gibed.  "And,  pray,  why  not  his  wife  ?  You  see,  she 
was  the  ward  of  old  Rutlidge — a  niece,  it  is  said. 
Mrs.  Rutlidge — as  you  have  no  doubt  heard — killed 
herself .  It  was  shortly  after  her  death  that  Jim  took 
Vhis  little  one  into  his  home.  She  and  young  Jim 
{\Tew  up  together.  What  was  more  natural  or  fitting 
than  that  her  guardian — when  he  was  about  to  depart 
from  this  sad  world  where  human  flesh  is  not  able 
to  endure  an  unlimited  amount  of  dissipation — 
should  give  the  girl  as  a  lively  souvenir  to  his  bosom 
friend  and  companion  of  his  unmentionable  devil- 
tries ?  The  transaction  also  enabled  him,  you  under- 
stand, to  draw  upon  the  Taine  millions;  and  so  per- 
mitted him  to  finish  his  distinguished  career  with 

49 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOELD 

credit.  You,  with  your  artist's  extravagant  fancy, 
have,  no  doubt,  been  thinking  of  her  as  fashioned  for 
love.  I  assure  you  she  knows  better.  The  world  in 
which  she  has  been  schooled  has  left  her  no  hazy 
ideas  as  to  what  she  was  made  for." 

"I  have  heard  of  the  Taines,"  said  the  younger 
man,  thoughtfully.  "I  suppose  this  is  the  same 
family.  They  are  very  prominent  in  the  social  world, 
and  quite  generous  patrons  of  the  arts  ?" 

"In  the  eyes  of  the  world,"  said  the  novelist,  "they 
are  the  noblest  of  our  Nobility.  They  dwell  in  the 
rarefied  atmosphere  of  millions.  By  the  dollarless 
multitudes  they  are  envied.  They  assume  to  be  the 
cultured  of  the  cultured.  Patrons  of  the  arts !  Why, 
man,  they  have  autographed  copies  of  all  my  books! 
They  and  their  kind  feed  me  and  my  kind.  They 
will  feed  you,  sir,  or  by  God  you'll  starve !  But  you 
need  have  no  fear  that  the  crust  of  genius  will  be 
your  portion,"  he  added  meaningly.  "As  I  remarked 
— the  'Goddess'  has  her  eye  upon  you." 

"And  why  do  you  so  distinguish  the  lady  ?"  asked 
the  artist,  quietly  amused — with  just  a  hint  of  well- 
bred  condescension.  "Has  Mrs.  Taine  such  powerful 
influence  in  the  world  of  art  ?" 

If  Conrad  Lagrange  noticed  his  companion's  man- 
ner, he  passed  it  by.  "I  perceive,"  he  said,  "that  you 
are  still  somewhat  lacking  in  the  rudiments  of  your 
profession.  The  statement  of  faith  adhered  to  by 
modern  climbers  on  the  ladder  of  fame — such  as  I 
have  been,  and  you  aspire  to  be — is  that  'Pull'  wins. 
Our  creed  is  'Graft.'  By  'Influence'  we  stand,  by 


50 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

'Influence'  we  fall.  It  pleases  Mrs.  Taine  to  be,  in 
the  world  of  art,  a  lobbyist.  She  knows  the  insidea 
of  the  inside  rings  and  cliques  and  committees  that 
say  what  is,  and  what  is  not,  art;  that  declare  who 
shall  be,  and  who  shall  not  be,  artists.  She  has  power 
with  those  who,  in  their  might,  grant  position  and 
place  in  the  halls  of  fame;  as  their  kinsmen  in  the 
political  world  pass  the  plums  to  those  who  court 
their  favor.  The  great  critics  who  thunder  anath- 
emas at  the  poor  devils  who  are  outside,  eat  out  of 
her  hand.  Jim  Rutlidge  and  his  unholy  crew  are 
at  her  beck  and  call.  Jim,  you  see,  needing  all  he 
can  get  of  the  Taine  millions,  hopes  to  marry  Louise. 
You  can  scarcely  blame  the  young  and  beautiful  Mrs. 
Taine  for  not  being  interested  in  her  husband — who 
is  going  to  die  so  soon.  The  poor  girl  must  have 
some  amusement,  so  she  interests  herself  in  art,  don't 
you  know.  She  gives  more  dinners  to  artists  and 
critics ;  buys  more  pictures  and  causes  more  pictures 
to  be  bought;  mothers  more  art-culture  clubs;  dis- 
covers more  new  and  startling  geniuses ;  in  short,  has 
a  larger  and  better  trained  company  of  lions  than 
any  one  else  in  the  business.  She  deals  in  lions.  It's 
her  fad  to  collect  them — same  as  others  collect  butter- 
flies or  postage  stamps.  She  has  one  other  fad  that 
is  less  harmful  and  just  as  deceptive — a  carefully 
nourished  reputation  for  prudery.  I  sometimes  think 
the  Gods  must  laugh  or  choke.  That  woman  would 
no  more  speak  to  you  without  a  proper  introduction 
than  she  would  appear  on  the  street  without  shoes  or 
stockings.  She  has  never  been  seen  in  an  evening 


51 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

gown.  Her  beautiful  shoulders  have  never  been 
immodestly  bared  to  the  eyes  of  the  world." 

The  artist  thought  of  that  moment  on  the  observa- 
tion car  platform. 

Presently,  the  novelist — refilling  his  pipe — said 
whimsically,  "Some  day,  Mr.  King,  I  shall  write  a 
true  story.  It  shall  be  a  novel  of  to-day,  with  char- 
acters drawn  from  life;  and  these  characters,  in  my 
story,  shall  bear  the  names  of  the  forces  that  have 
made  them  what  they  are  and  which  they,  in  turn, 
have  come  to  represent.  I  mean  those  forces  that  are 
so  coloring  and  shaping  the  life  and  thought  of  this 
age." 

"That  ought  to  be  interesting,"  said  the  other,  "but 
I  am  not  quite  sure  that  I  understand." 

"Probably  you  don't.  You  have  not  been  thinking 
much  of  these  things.  You  have  your  eye  upon 
Fame,  and  that  old  witch  lives  in  another  direction. 
To  illustrate — our  bull-necked  friend  and  illustrious 
critic,  James  Rutlidge,  in  my  story,  will  be  named 
'Sensual.'  His  distinguished  father  was  one  'Lust.' 
The  horrible  example,  Mr.  Edward  Taine, — boon 
companion  of  'Lust,' — is  'Materialism'." 

"Good !"  laughed  the  artist.  "I  see;  go  on.  Who 
is  the  daughter  of  'Materialism  ?'  " 

"  'Ragtime',"  promptly  returned  the  novelist,  with 
a  grin.  "Who  else  could  she  be  ?" 

"And  Mrs.  Taine  ?"  urged  the  other. 

The  novelist  responded  quickly ;  "Why,  the  reign- 
ing 'Goddess'  in  the  realm  of  'Modern  Art,'  is  'The 
Age,'  of  course.  Do  you  see  ?  'The  Age'  given  over 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

to  'Materialism'  for  base  purposes  by  his  companion, 
'Lust.'  And  you "  he  paused. 

"Go  on,"  cried  the  young  man,  "who  or  what  am 
I  in  your  story?" 

"You,  sir," — answered  Conrad  Lagrange,  seri- 
ously,— "in  my  story  of  modern  life,  represent  Art. 
It  remains  to  be  seen  whether  'The  Age'  will  add  you 
to  her  collection,  or  whether  some  other  influence  will 
intervene." 

"And  you" — persisted  the  artist — "surely  you  are 
in  the  story." 

"I  am  very  much  in  the  story,"  the  other  answered. 
"My  name  is  'Civilization.'  My  story  will  be  pub- 
lished when  I  am  dead.  I  have  a  reputation  to  sus- 
tain, you  know." 

Aaron  King  was  not  laughing,  now.  Something, 
that  lay  deep  hidden  beneath  the  rude  exterior  of  the 
man,  made  itself  felt  in  his  deep  voice.  Some  power- 
ful force,  underlying  his  whimsical  words,  gripped 
the  artist's  mind — compelling  him  to  search  for  hid- 
den meanings  in  the  novelist's  fanciful  suggestions. 

A  few  moments  passed  in  silence  before  the  young 
man  said  slowly,  "I  met  a  character,  yesterday,  Mr. 
Lagrange,  that  might  be  added  to  your  cast." 

"There  are  several  that  will  be  added  to  my  cast," 
the  othe r  answered  dryly. 

To  which  the  painter  returned,  "Did  you  notice 
that  woman  with  the  disfigured  face,  at  the  depot  ?" 

Conrad  Lagrange  looked  at  his  companion,  quickly. 
"Yes." 

"Do  you  know  her  ?"  questioned  the  artist. 

"No.    Why  do  you  ask?" 

53 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

"Only  because  she  interested  me,  and  because  she 
seemed  to  know  your  friends — Mr.  Rutlidge  and  Mrs. 
Taine." 

The  novelist  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe  by 
tapping  it  on  the  veranda  railing.  The  action  seemed 
to  express  a  peculiar  mental  effort;  as  though  he  were 
striving  to  recall  something  that  had  gone  from  his 
memory.  "I  saw  what  happened  at  the  depot,  of 
course,"  he  said  slowly.  "I  have  seen  the  woman 
before.  She  lives  here  in  Fairlands.  Her  name  is 
Miss  Willard.  No  one  seems  to  know  much  about 
her.  I  can't  get  over  the  impression  that  I  ought  to 
know  her — that  I  have  met  and  known  her  some- 
where, years  ago.  Her  manner,  yesterday,  at  seeing 
Mrs.  Taine,  was  certainly  very  strange."  As  if  to 
free  his  mind  from  the  unsuccessful  effort  to  remem- 
ber, he  rose  to  his  feet.  "But  why  should  she  be 
added  to  the  characters  in  my  novel,  Mr.  King? 
What  does  she  represent?" 

"Her  name," — said  the  artist, — "in  your  study  of 
life,  is  suggested  by  her  face — so  beautiful  on  the 
one  side — so  distorted  on  the  other — her  name  should 
be  'Symbol'." 

"There  really  is  hope  for  you,"  returned  the  older 
man,  with  his  quizzing  smile.  "Good  night.  Come, 
Czar."  He  passed  into  the  hotel — the  dog  at  his 
heels. 

It  was  two  days  later — Thursday — that  Conrad 
Lagrange  made  his  memorable  visit  to  the  Taines 
— memorable,  in  my  story,  because,  at  that  time, 
Mrs.  Taine  gave  such  unmistakable  evidence  of  her 
interest  in  Aaron  King  and  his  future. 

54 


CHAPTER  IV 
AT  THE  HOUSE  ON  FAIRLANDS  HEIGHTS 

S  my  friend  the  social  scientist  would  say; 
it  is  a  phenomenon  peculiar  to  urban  life, 
that  the  social  strata  are  more  or  less 
clearly  denned  geographically. 

That  is, — in  the  English  of  everyday, — 
people  of  different  classes  live  in  different 
parts  of  the  city.  As  certain  streets  and  blocks  are 
given  to  the  wholesale  establishments,  others  to  retail 
stores,  and  still  others  to  the  manufacturing  plants ; 
so  there  are  the  tenement  districts,  the  slums,  and  the 
streets  where  may  be  found  the  homes  of  wealth  and 
fashion. 

In  Fairlands,  the  social  rating  is  largely  marked 
by  altitude.  The  city,  lying  in  the  lap  of  the  hills  and 
looking  a  little  down  upon  the  valley — plebeian  busi- 
ness, together  with  those  who  do  the  work  of  Fair- 
lands,  occupies  the  lowest  levels  in  the  corporate 
limits.  The  heights  are  held  by  Fairlands'  Pride. 
Between  these  two  extremes,  the  Fairlanders  are 
graded  fairly  by  the  levels  they  occupy.  It  is  most 
gratifying  to  observe  how  generally  the  citizens  of  this 
fortunate  community  aspire  to  higher  things ;  and  to 
note  that  the  peculiarly  proud  spirit  of  this  people  is 
undoubtedly  explained  by  this  happy  arrangement 
which  enables  every  one  to  look  down  upon  his 
neighbor. 

55 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

The  view  from  the  winter  home  of  the  Taines  was 
magnificent. 

From  the  window  of  the  room  where  Mrs.  Taine 
sat,  that  afternoon,  one  could  have  looked  down  upon 
all  Fairlands.  One  might,  indeed,  have  done  better 
than  that.  Looking  over  the  wealth  of  semi-tropical 
foliage  that — save  for  the  tower  of  the  red-brick  Y. 
M.  C.  A.  building,  the  white,  municipal  flagstaff,  and 
the  steeples  and  belfries  of  the  churches — hid  the 
city,  one  might  have  looked  up  at  the  mountains. 
High,  high,  above  the  low  levels  occupied  by  the  hill- 
climbing  Fairlanders,  the  mountains  lift  their  heads 
in  solemn  dignity;  looking  down  upon  the  loftiest 
Fairlander  of  them  all — looking  down  upon  even  the 
Taines  themselves. 

But  the  glory  of  Mrs.  Taine's  God  was  not  declared 
by  the  mountains.  She  sat  by  the  window,  indeed, 
but  her  eyes  were  upon  the  open  pages  of  a  book — a 
popular  novel  that  by  some  strange  legal  lapse  of  the 
governmental  conscience  was — and  is  still — permitted 
in  print. 

The  author  of  the  story  that  so  engrossed  Mrs. 
Taine  was — in  her  opinion — almost  as  great  in  litera- 
ture as  Conrad  Lagrange,  himself.  By  those  in  au- 
thority who  pronounce  upon  the  worthiness  or  the 
unworthiness  of  writer  folk,  he  is,  to-day,  said  to  be 
one  of  the  greatest  writers  of  his  generation.  He  is 
a  realist — a  modern  of  the  moderns.  His  pen  has 
never  been  debased  by  an  inartistic  and  antiquated 
idealism.  His  claim  to  genius  rests  securely  upon 
the  fact  that  he  has  no  ideals.  He  writes  for  that 
select  circle  of  leaders  who,  like  the  Taines  and  the 

56 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

Rutlidges,  are  capable  of  appreciating  his  art.  All  of 
which  means  that  he  tells  filthy  stories  in  good  Eng- 
lish. That  his  stories  are  identical  in  material  and 
motive  with  the  vile  yarns  that  are  permitted  only  in 
the  lowest  class  barber  shops  and  in  disreputable  bar- 
rooms, in  no  way  detracts  from  the  admiring  praise 
of  his  critics,  the  generosity  of  his  publishers,  or  the 
appreciation  of  those  for  whom  he  writes. 

With  tottering  step  and  feeble,  shaking  limbs,  Ed- 
ward Taine  entered  the  apartment.  As  he  stood, 
silently  looking  at  his  young  wife,  his  glazed,  red- 
rimmed  eyes  fed  upon  her  voluptuous  beauty  with  a 
look  of  sullen,  impotent  lustfulness  that  was  near  in- 
sanity. A  spasm  of  coughing  seized  him;  he  gasped 
and  choked,  his  wasted  body  shaken  and  racked,  his 
dissipated  face  hideously  distorted  by  the  violence  of 
the  paroxysm.  Wrecked  by  the  flesh  he  had  lived  to 
gratify,  he  was  now  the  mocked  and  tortured  slave  of 
the  very  devils  of  unholy  passion  that  he  had  so  often 
invoked  to  serve  him.  Repulsive  as  he  was,  he  was 
an  object  to  awaken  the  deepest  pity. 

Mrs.  Taine,  looking  up  from  her  novel,  watched 
him  curiously — without  moving  or  changing  her  atti- 
tude of  luxurious  repose — without  speaking.  Almost, 
one  would  have  said,  a  shade  of  a  smile  was  upon  her 
too  perfect  features. 

When  the  man — who  had  dropped  weak  and  ex- 
hausted into  a  chair — could  speak,  he  glared  at  her  in 
a  pitiful  rage,  and,  in  his  throaty  whisper,  said  with 
a  curse,  "You  seem  to  be  amused." 

Still,  she  did  not  speak.  A  tantalizing  smile  broke 
over  her  face,  and  she  stretched  her  beautiful  body 

57 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

lazily  in  her  chair,  as  a  well-conditioned  animal  stirs 
in  sleek,  physical  contentment. 

Again,  with  curses,  he  said,  "I'm  glad  you  so  enjoy 
my  company.  To  be  laughed  at,  even,  is  better  than 
your  damned  indifference." 

"You  misjudge  me,"  she  answered  in  a  voice  that, 
low  and  soft,  was  still  richly  colored  by  the  wealth  of 
vitality  that  found  expression  in  her  splendid  body. 
"I  am  not  at  all  indifferent  to  your  condition — quite 
the  contrary.  I  am  intensely  interested.  As  for  the 
amusement  you  afford  me — please  consider — for 
three  years  I  have  amused  you.  Can  you  deny  me  my 
turn?" 

He  laughed  with  a  hideously  mirthless  chuckle  as 
he  returned  with  ghastly  humor,  "I  have  had  the 
worth  of  my  money.  I  advise  you  to  make  the  most 
of  your  opportunity.  I  shall  make  things  as  pleasant 
for  you  as  I  can,  while  I  am  with  you,  but,  as  you 
know,  I  am  liable  to  leave  you  at  any  time,  now." 

"Pray  don't  hurry  away,"  she  replied  sweetly.  "I 
shall  miss  you  so  when  you  are  gone." 

He  glared  at  her  while  she  laughed  mockingly. 

"Where  is  everybody  ?"  he  asked.  "The  place  is  as 
lonely  as  a  tomb." 

"Louise  is  out  riding  with  Jim." 

"And  what  are  you  doing  at  home  ?"  he  demanded 
suspiciously. 

"Me  ?  Oh  I  remained  to  care  for  you — to  keep  you 
from  being  lonely." 

"You  lie.    You  are  expecting  some  one." 

She  laughed. 

"Who  is  it  this  time  ?"  he  persisted. 

58 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

"Your  insinuations  are  so  unwarranted,"  she  mur- 
mured. 

"Whom  are  you  expecting  ?" 

"Dear  me !  how  persistently  you  look  for  evil,"  she 
mocked.  "You  know  perfectly  well  that,  thanks  to 
my  tact,  I  am  considered  quite  the  model  wife.  You 
really  should  cultivate  a  more  trusting  disposition." 

Another  fit  of  coughing  seized  him,  and  while  he 
suffered  she  again  watched  him  with  that  curious  air 
of  interest.  When  he  could  command  his  voice,  he 
gasped  in  a  choking  whisper,  "You  fiend!  I  know, 
and  you  know  that  I  know.  Am  I  so  innocent  that 
Jack  Hanover,  and  Charlie  Rodgers,  and  Black  Whit- 
man, and  as  many  more  of  their  kind,  can  make  love 
to  you  under  my  very  nose  without  my  knowing  it? 
You  take  damned  good  care — posing  as  a  prude  with 
your  fad  about  immodest  dress — that  the  world  sees 
nothing ;  but  you  have  never  troubled  to  hide  it  from 
me." 

Deliberately,  she  arose  and  stood  before  him.  "And 
why  should  I  trouble  to  hide  anything  from  you?" 
she  demanded.  "Look  at  me" — she  posed  as  if  to 
exhibit  for  his  critical  inspection  the  charm  of  her 
physical  beauty — "Look  at  me;  am  I  to  waste  all  this 
upon  you  ?  You  tell  me  that  you  have  had  your  mon- 
ey's worth — surely,  the  purchase  price  is  mine  to 
spend  as  I  will.  Even  suppose  that  I  were  as  evil  as 
your  foul  mind  sees  me,  what  right  have  you  to  ob- 
ject ?  Are  you  so  chaste  that  you  dare  cast  a  stone  at 
me  ?  Am  I  to  have  no  pleasure  in  this  hell  you  have 
made  for  me  but  the  horrible  pleasure  of  watching 
you  in  the  hell  you  have  made  for  yourself?  Be 

59 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

satisfied  that  the  world  does  not  see  your  shame — 
though  it's  from  no  consideration  of  you,  but  wholly 
for  myself,  that  I  am  careful.  As  for  my  modesty — 
you  know  it  is  not  a  fad  but  a  necessity." 

"That  is  just  it" —  he  retorted —  "it  is  the  way  you 
make  a  fad  of  a  necessity!  Forced  to  hide  your 
shoulders,  you  make  a  virtue  of  concealment.  You 
make  capital  of  the  very  thing  of  which  you  are 
ashamed." 

"And  is  not  that  exactly  what  we  all  do?"  she 
asked  with  brutal  cynicism.  "Do  you  not  fear  the 
eyes  of  the  world  as  much  as  I  ?  Be  satisfied  that  I 
play  the  game  of  respectability  with  you — that  I  give 
the  world  no  cause  for  talk.  You  may  as  well  be," 
she  finished  with  devilish  frankness,  "for  you  are  past 
helping  yourself  in  the  matter." 

As  she  finished,  a  servant  appeared  to  announce 
Mr.  Conrad  Lagrange ;  and  the  tall,  uncouth  figure  of 
the  novelist  stood  framed  in  the  doorway;  his  sharp 
eyes  regarding  them  with  that  peculiar,  quizzing, 
baffling  look. 

Edward  Taine  laughed  with  that  horrid  chuckle. 
"Howdy-do,  Lagrange — glad  to  see  you." 

Mrs.  Taine  went  forward  to  greet  the  caller;  say- 
ing, as  she  gave  him  her  hand,  "You  arrived  just  in 
time,  Mr.  Lagrange;  Edward  and  I  were  discussing 
your  latest  book.  We  think  it  a  masterpiece  of  realis- 
tic fiction.  I'm  sure  it  will  add  immensely  to  your 
fame.  I  hear  it  talked  of  everywhere  as  the  most 
popular  novel  of  the  year.  You  wonderful  man! 
How  do  you  do  it  ?" 


60 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOULD 

"I  don't  do  it,"  answered  Conrad  Lagrange,  look- 
ing straight  into  her  eyes.  "It  does  itself.  My  books 
are  really  true  products  of  the  age  that  reads  them; 
and — to  paraphrase  a  statesman  who  was  himself  a 
product  of  his  age — for  those  who  read  my  books  they 
are  just  the  kind  of  books  that  I  would  expect  such 
people  to  read." 

Mrs.  Taine  looked  at  him  with  a  curious,  half- 
doubtful,  half-wistful  expression;  as  though  she 
glimpsed  a  hint  of  a  meaning  that  did  not  appear 
upon  the  surface  of  his  words.  "You  do  say  such — 
such — twisty  things,"  she  murmured.  "I  don't  think 
I  always  understand  what  you  mean;  but  when  you 
look  at  me  that  way,  I  feel  as  though  my  maid  had 
neglected  to  finish  hooking  me  up." 

The  novelist  bowed  in  mock  gallantry — a  move- 
ment which  made  his  ungainly  form  appear  more  gro- 
tesque than  ever.  "Indeed,  madam,  to  my  humble 
eyes,  you  are  most  beautifully  and  fittingly — ah — 
hooked  up."  He  turned  toward  the  invalid.  "And 
how  is  the  fortunate  husband  of  the  charming  Mrs. 
Taine  to-day?" 

"Fine,  Lagrange,  fine,"  said  the  man — a  cough  in- 
terrupting his  words.  "Eeally,  I  think  that  Gertrude 
is  unduly  alarmed  about  my  condition.  In  this  glo- 
rious climate,  I  feel  like  a  three-year-old." 

"You  are  looking  quite  like  yourself,"  returned 
the  novelist 

"There's  nothing  at  all  the  matter  with  me  but  a 
slight  bronchial  trouble,"  continued  the  other,  cough- 
ing again.  Then,  to  his  wife — "Dearest,  won't  you 


61 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

ring,  please ;  I'm  sure  it's  time  for  my  toddy ;  perhaps 
Mr.  Lagrange  will  join  me  in  a  drink.  What'll  it  be, 
Lagrange  ?" 

"Nothing,  thanks,  at  this  hour." 

"No  ?  But  you'll  pardon  me,  I'm  sure — Doctor's 
orders  you  know." 

A  servant  appeared.  Mrs.  Taine  took  the  glass  and 
carried  it  to  her  husband  with  her  own  hand,  saying 
with  tender  solicitude,  "Don't  you  think,  dear,  that 
you  should  lie  down  for  a  while  ?  Mr.  Lagrange  will 
remain  for  dinner,  you  know.  You  must  not  tire 
yourself.  I'm  sure  he  will  excuse  you.  I'll  manage 
somehow  to  amuse  him  until  Jim  and  Louise  return/' 

"I  believe  I  will  rest  a  little,  Gertrude."  He 
turned  to  the  guest — "While  there  is  nothing  really 
wrong,  you  know,  Lagrange,  still  it's  best  to  be  on  the 
safe  side." 

"By  all  means,"  said  the  novelist,  heartily.  "You 
should  take  care  of  yourself.  Don't,  I  beg,  permit  me 
to  detain  you." 

Mrs.  Taine,  with  careful  tenderness,  accompanied 
her  husband  to  the  door.  When  he  had  passed  from 
the  room,  she  faced  the  novelist,  with —  "Don't  you 
think  Edward  is  really  very  much  worse,  Mr.  La- 
grange?  I  keep  up  appearances,  you  know,  but — " 
she  paused  with  a  charming  air  of  perplexed  and  wor- 
ried anxiety. 

"Your  husband  is  certainly  not  a  well  man,  madam 
— but  you  keep  up  appearances  wonderfully.  I  really 
don't  see  how  you  manage  it.  But  I  suppose  that  for 
one  of  your  nature  it  is  natural." 

Again,  she  received  his  words  with  that  look  of 

62 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

doubtful  understanding — as  though  sensing  some 
meaning  beneath  the  polite,  commonplace  surface. 
Then,  as  if  to  lead  away  from  the  subject —  "You 
must  really  tell  me  what  you  think  of  our  California 
home.  I  told  you  in  New  York,  you  remember,  that 
I  should  ask  you,  the  first  thing.  We  were  so  sorry 
to  have  missed  you  last  year.  Please  be  frank.  Isn't 
it  beautiful  2" 

"Very  beautiful" — he  answered — "exquisite  taste 
— perfect  harmony  with  modern  art."  His  quizzing 
eyes  twinkled,  and  a  caricature  of  a  smile  distorted 
his  face.  "It  fairly  smells  to  heaven  of  the  flesh 
pots." 

She  laughed  merrily.  "The  odor  should  not  be 
unfamiliar  to  you,"  she  retorted.  "By  all  accounts, 
your  royalties  are  making  you  immensely  rich.  How 
wonderful  it  must  be  to  be  famous — to  know  that  the 
whole  world  is  talking  about  you !  And  that  reminds 
me — who  is  your  distinguished  looking  friend  at  the 
hotel  ?  I  was  dying  to  ask  you,  the  other  night,  but 
didn't  dare.  I  know  he  is  somebody  famous." 

Conrad  Lagrange,  studying  her  face,  answered  re- 
luctantly, "No,  he  is  not  famous ;  but  I  fear  he  is  go- 
ing to  be." 

"Another  twisty  saying,"  she  retorted.  "But  I 
mean  to  have  an  answer,  so  you  may  as  well  speak 
plainly.  Have  you  known  him  long?  What  is  his 
name  ?  And  what  is  he — a  writer  ?" 

"His  name  is  Aaron  King.  His  mother  and  I  grew 
up  in  the  same  neighborhood.  He  is  an  artist." 

"How  romantic !  Do  you  mean  that  he  belongs  to 
that  old  family  of  New  England  Kings  ?" 

63 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

"He  is  the  last  of  them.  His  father  was  Aaron 
King — a  prominent  lawyer  and  politician  in  his 
state." 

"Oh,  yes!  I  remember!  Wasn't  there  something 
whispered  at  the  time  of  his  death — some  scandal  that 
was  hushed  up — money  stolen — or  something  ?  What 
was  it  ?  I  can't  think." 

"Whatever  it  was,  Mrs.  Taine,  the  son  had  nothing 
to  do  with  it.  Don't  you  think  we  might  let  the  dead 
man  stay  safely  buried  ?"  There  was  an  ominous 
glint  in  Conrad  Lagrange's  eyes. 

Mrs.  Taine  answered  hurriedly,  "Indeed,  yes,  Mr. 
Lagrange.  You  are  right.  And  you  shall  bring  Mr. 
King  out  to  see  me.  If  he  is  as  nice  as  he  looks,  I 
promise  you  I  will  be  very  good  to  him.  Perhaps  I 
may  even  help  him  a  little,  through  Jim,  you  know — 
bring  him  in  touch  with  the  right  people  and  that 
sort  of  thing.  What  does  he  paint  ?" 

"Portraits."    The  novelist's  tone  was  curt. 

"Then  I  am  sure  I  could  do  a  great  deal  for  him." 

"And  I  am  sure  you  would  do  a  great  deal  to  him," 
said  Conrad  Lagrange,  bluntly. 

She  laughed  again.  "And  just  what  do  you  mean 
by  that,  Mr.  Lagrange?  I'm  not  sure  whether  it  is 
complimentary  or  otherwise." 

"That  depends  upon  what  you  consider  complimen- 
tary," retorted  the  other.  "As  I  told  you — Aaron 
King  is  an  artist." 

Again,  she  favored  him  with  that  look  of  doubtful 
understanding ;  shaking  her  head  with  mock  sadness, 
and  making  a  long  sigh.  "Another  twister" — she 


64 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

said  woefully — "just  when  we  were  getting  along  so 
beautifully,  too.  Won't  you  try  again  ?" 

"In  words  of  one  syllable  then — let  him  alone.  He 
is,  to-day,  exactly  where  I  was  twenty  years  ago.  For 
God's  sake,  let  him  alone.  Play  your  game  with  those 
who  are  no  loss  to  the  world ;  or  with  those  who,  like 
me,  are  already  lost.  Let  this  man  do  his  work. 
Don't  make  him  what  I  am." 

"Oh  dear,  oh  dear,"  she  laughed,  "and  these  are 
words  of  one  syllable !  You  talk  as  though  I  were  a 
dreadful  dragon  seeking  a  genius  to  devour !" 

"You  are,"  said  the  novelist,  gruffly. 

"How  nice.  I'm  all  shivery  with  delight,  already. 
You  really  must  bring  him  now,  you  see.  You  might 
as  well,  for,  if  you  don't,  I'll  manage  some  other  way 
when  you  are  not  around  to  protect  him.  You  don't 
want  to  trust  him  to  me  unprotected,  do  you  f" 

"No,  and  I  won't,"  retorted  Conrad  Lagrange — 
which,  though  Mrs.  Taine  did  not  remark  it,  was  also 
a  twister. 

"But  after  all,  perhaps  he  won't  come,"  she  said 
with  mock  anxiety. 

"Don't  worry  madam — he's  just  as  much  a  fool 
as  the  rest  of  us." 

As  the  novelist  spoke,  they  heard  the  voices  of  Miss 
Taine  and  her  escort,  James  Rutlidge.  Mrs.  Taine 
had  only  time  to  shake  a  finger  in  playful  warning  at 
her  companion,  and  to  whisper,  "Mind  you  bring 
your  artist  to  me,  or  I'll  get  him  when  you're  not 
looking;  and  listen,  don't  tell  Jim  about  him;  I  must 
£ee  what  he  is  like,  first." 


65 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

At  lunch,  the  next  day,  Conrad  Lagrange  greeted 
the  artist  in  his  bitterest  humor.  "And  how  is  the 
famous  Aaron  King,  to-day  ?  I  trust  that  the  great- 
est portrait  painter  of  the  age  is  well ;  that  the  hotel 
people  have  been  properly  attentive  to  the  comfort  of 
their  illustrious  guest?  The  world  of  art  can  ill 
afford  to  have  its  rarest  genius  suffer  from  any  lack 
of  the  service  that  is  due  his  greatness." 

The  young  man's  face  flushed  at  his  companion's 
mocking  tone;  but  he  laughed.  "I  missed  you  at 
breakfast." 

"I  was  sleeping  off  the  effect  of  my  intellectual  de- 
bauch— it  takes  time  to  recover  from  a  dinner  with 
'Materialism,'  'Sensual,'  'Ragtime'  and  'The  Age'," 
the  other  returned,  the  menu  in  his  hand.  "What 
slop  are  they  offering  to  put  in  our  troughs  for  this 
noon's  feed?" 

Again,  Aaron  King  laughed.  But  as  the  novelist, 
with  characteristic  comments  and  instructions  to  the 
waitress,  ordered  his  lunch,  the  artist  watched  him  as 
though  waiting  with  interest  his  further  remarks  on 
the  subject  of  his  evening  with  the  Taines. 

When  the  girl  was  gone,  Conrad  Lagrange  turned 
again  to  his  companion,  and  from  under  his  scowling 
brows  regarded  him  much  as  a  withered  scientist 
might  regard  an  interesting  insect  under  his  glass. 
"Permit  me  to  congratulate  you,"  he  said  suggest- 
ively— as  though  the  bug  had  succeeded  in  acting  in 
some  manner  fully  expected  by  the  scientist  but 
wholly  disgusting  to  him. 

The  artist  colored  again  as  he  returned  curiously, 
"Upon  what?" 

66 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

"Upon  the  start  you  have  made  toward  the  goal  you 
hope  to  reach." 

"What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Mrs.  Taine  wants  you." 

"You  are  pleased  t<  be  facetious."  Under  the  eyes 
of  his  companion,  Aaron  King  felt  that  his  reply  did 
not  at  all  conceal  his  satisfaction. 

"I  am  pleased  to  be  exact.  I  repeat — Mrs.  Taine 
wants  you.  I  am  ordered  by  the  reigning  'Goddess' 
of  'Modern  Art' — 'The  Age' — to  bring  you  into  her 
'Court.'  You  have  won  favor  in  her  sight.  She  finds 
you  good  to  look  at.  She  hopes  to  find  you — as  good 
as  you  look.  If  you  do  not  disappoint  her,  your  fame 
is  assured." 

"Nonsense,"  said  the  artist,  somewhat  sharply; 
nettled  by  the  obvious  meaning  and  by  the  sneering 
sarcasm  of  the  novelist's  words  and  tone. 

To  which  the  other  returned  suggestively,  "It  is 
precisely  because  you  can  say,  'nonsense,'  when  you 
know  it  is  no  nonsense  at  all,  but  the  exact  truth,  that 
your  chance  for  fame  is  so  good,  my  friend." 

"And  did  some  reigning  'Goddess'  insure  your  suc- 
cess and  fame  ?" 

The  older  man  turned  his  peculiar,  penetrating, 
baffling  eyes  full  upon  his  companion's  face,  and  in 
a  voice  full  of  cynical  sadness  answered,  "Exactly  so. 
I  paid  court  to  the  powers  that  be.  They  gave  me  the 
reward  I  sought ;  and — they  made  me  what  I  am." 

So  it  came  about  that  Conrad  Lagrange,  in  due 
time,  introduced  Aaron  King  to  the  house  on  Fair- 
lands  Heights.  Or, — as  the  novelist  put  it, — he, 
"Civilization", — in  obedience  to  the  commands  of 

67 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

her  "Royal  Highness",  "The  Age",— presented  the 
artist  at  her  "Majesty's  Court" ;  that  the  young  man 
might  sue  for  the  royal  favor. 

It  was,  perhaps,  a  month  after  the  presentation 
ceremony,  that  the  painter  made  what — to  him,  at 
least — was  an  important  announcement. 


CHAPTER  V 
THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  ROSE  GARDEN 

HE  acquaintance  of  Aaron  King  and  Con- 
rad Lagrange  had  developed  rapidly  into 
friendship. 

The  man  whom  the  world  had  chosen  to 
place  upon  one  of  tht>  highest  pinnacles  of 
its  literary  favor,  and  who — through  some 
queer  twist  in  his  nature — was  so  lonely  and  em- 
bittered by  his  exaltation,  seemed  to  find  in  the 
younger  man  who  stood  with  the  crowd  at  the  foot 
of  the  ladder,  something  that  marked  him  as  different 
from  his  fellows. 

Whether  it  was  the  artist's  mother;  some  sacredly 
hidden  memories  of  Lagrange's  past;  or,  perhaps, 
some  fancied  recognition  of  the  artist's  genius  and 
its  possibilities;  the  strange  man  gave  no  hint;  but 
he  constantly  sought  the  company  of  Aaron  King, 
with  an  openness  that  made  his  preference  for  the 
painter's  society  very  evident.  If  he  had  said  any- 
thing about  it,  at  all,  Conrad  Lagrange,  likely,  would 
have  accounted  for  his  interest,  upon  the  ground  that 
his  dog,  Czar,  found  the  companionship  agreeable. 
Their  friendship,  meanwhile — in  the  eyes  of  the 
world — conferred  a  peculiar  distinction  upon  the 
young  man — a  distinction  not  at  all  displeasing  to 
the  ambitious  artist ;  and  the  value  of  which  he,  prob- 
ably, overrated. 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOELD 

To  Aaron  King — aside  from  the  subtle  flattery  of 
the  famous  novelist's  attention — there  was  in  the  per- 
sonality of  the  odd  character  a  something  that  ap- 
pealed to  him  with  peculiar  strength.  Perhaps  it  was 
that  the  man's  words,  so  often  sharp  and  stinging 
with  bitter  sarcasm,  seemed  always  to  carry  a  hidden 
meaning  that  gave,  as  it  were,  glimpses  of  another 
nature  buried  deeply  beneath  a  wreck  of  ruined 
dreams  and  disappointing  achievements.  Or,  it  may 
have  been  that,  under  all  the  cruel,  world-hardness  of 
the  thoughts  expressed,  the  J^ung  man  sensed  an 
undertone  of  pathetic  sadness.  Or,  again,  perhaps,  it 
was  those  rare  moments,  when — on  some  walk  that 
carried  them  beyond  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  and 
brought  the  mountains  into  unobstructed  view — the 
clouds  of  bitterness  were  lifted ;  and  the  man  spoke 
with  poetic  feeling  of  the  realities  of  life,  and  of  the 
true  glory  and  mission  of  the  arts;  counseling  his 
friend  with  an  intelligence  as  true  and  delicate  as  it 
was  rare  and  fine. 

It  was  nearly  two  months  after  Conrad  Lagrange 
had  introduced  the  young  man  at  the  house  on  Fair- 
lands  Heights.  The  hour  was  late.  The  painter — 
returning  from  a  dinner  and  an  evening  at  the  Taine 
home — found  the  novelist,  with  pipe  and  dog,  in  a 
deserted  corner  of  the  hotel  veranda.  Dropping  into 
the  chair  that  was  placed  as  if  it  awaited  his  coming, 
the  artist — with  no  word  of  greeting  to  the  man — 
bent  over  the  brown  head  that  was  thrust  so  in- 
sistently against  his  knee,  as  Czar,  with  gently  wav- 
ing tail,  made  him  welcome.  Looking  affectionately 


70 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOKLD 

into  the  brown  eyes  while  he  stroked  the  silky  coat, 
the  young  man  answered  in  the  language  that  all 
dogs  understand;  while  the  novelist,  from  under  his 
scowling  brows,  regarded  the  two  intently. 

"They  were  disappointed  that  you  were  not  there," 
said  the  painter,  presently.  "Mrs.  Taine,  particu- 
larly, charged  me  to  say  that  she  will  not  forgive, 
until  you  do  proper  penance  for  your  sin." 

"I  had  better  company,"  retorted  the  other.  "Czar 
and  I  went  for  a  look  at  the  mountains.  I  suppose 
you  have  noticed  that  Czar  does  not  care  for  the  Fair- 
lands  Heights  crowd.  He  is  very  peculiar  in  his 
friendships — for  a  dog.  His  instincts  are  remark- 
able." 

At  the  sound  of  his  name,  Czar  transferred  his  at- 
tentions, for  a  moment,  to  his  master ;  then  stretched 
himself  in  his  accustomed  place  beside  the  novelist's 
chair. 

The  artist  laughed.  "I  did  my  best  to  invent  an 
acceptable  excuse  for  you;  but  she  said  it  was  no 
use — nothing  short  of  your  own  personal  prayers  for 
mercy  would  do." 

"Humph;  you  should  have  reminded  her  that  I 
purchased  an  indulgence  some  weeks  ago." 

Again,  the  other  laughed  shortly.  Watching  him 
closely,  Conrad  Lagrange  said,  in  his  most  sneering 
tones,  "I  trust,  young  man,  that  you  are  not  failing 
to  make  good  use  of  your  opportunities.  Let's  see — 
dinner  and  the  evening  five  times — afternoon  calls  as 
many — with  motor  trips  to  points  of  interest — and 
one  theater  party  to  Los  Angeles — believe  me;  it  is 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

not  often  that  struggling  genius  is  so  rewarded — be- 
fore it  has  accomplished  anything  bad  enough  to 
merit  such  attention." 

"I  have  been  idling  most  shamefully,  haven't  I  ?" 
said  the  artist. 

"Idling!"  rasped  the  other.  "You  have  been  the 
busiest  hay-maker  in  the  land.  These  scientific,  in- 
tensive cultivation  farmers  of  California  are  not  in 
your  class  when  it  comes  to  utilizing  the  sunshine. 
Take  my  advice  and  continue  your  present  activity 
without  bothering  yourself  by  any  sentimental 
thoughts  of  your  palette  and  brushes.  The  mere  vul- 
gar tools  of  your  craft  are  of  minor  importance  to  one 
of  your  genius  and  opportunity." 

Then,  in  a  half  embarrassed  manner,  Aaron  King 
made  his  announcement.  "That  may  all  be,"  he  said, 
"but  just  the  same,  I  am  going  to  work." 

"I  knew  it" — returned  the  other,  in  mocking  tri- 
umph— "I  knew  it  the  moment  you  came  up  the 
steps  there.  I  could  tell  it  by  your  walk ;  by  the  air 
with  which  you  carried  yourself;  by  your  manner, 
your  voice,  your  laugh — you  fairly  reek  of  prosperity 
and  achievement — you  are  going  to  paint  her  por- 
trait." 

"And  why  not?"  retorted  the  young  man,  rather 
sharply,  a  trifle  nettled  by  the  other's  tone. 

"Why  not,  indeed !"  murmured  the  novelist.  "In- 
deed, yes — by  all  means !  It  is  so  exactly  the  right 
thing  to  do  that  it  is  startling.  You  scale  the  heights 
of  fame  with  such  confident  certainty  in  every  move 
that  it  is  positively  uncanny  to  watch  you." 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOULD 

"If  one's  work  is  true,  I  fail  to  see  why  one  should 
not  take  advantage  of  any  influence  that  can  contrib- 
ute to  his  success,"  said  the  painter.  "I  assure  you  I 
am  not  so  wealthy  that  I  can  afford  to  refuse  such  an 
attractive  commission.  You  must  admit  that  the 
beautiful  Mrs.  Taine  is  a  subject  worthy  the  brush  of 
any  artist;  and  I  suppose  it  is  conceivable  that  I 
might  be  ambitious  to  make  a  genuinely  good  job 
of  it" 

The  older  man,  as  though  touched  by  the  evident 
sincerity  of  the  artist's  words,  dropped  his  sneering 
tone  and  spoke  earnestly ;  "The  beautiful  Mrs.  Taine 
is  a  subject  worthy  a  master's  brush,  my  friend.  But 
take  my  word  for  it,  if  you  paint  her  portrait  as  a 
master  would  paint  it,  you  will  sign  your  own  death 
warrant — so  far  as  your  popularity  and  fame  as  an 
artist  goes." 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  declared  Aaron  King,  flatly. 

"I  know  you  don't.  If  you  did,  and  still  accepted 
the  commission,  you  wouldn't  be  fit  to  associate  with 
honest  dogs  like  Czar,  here." 

"But  why" — persisted  the  artist — "why  do  you 
insist  that  my  portrait  of  Mrs.  Taine  will  be  disas- 
trous to  my  success,  just  to  the  degree  that  it  is  a 
work  of  genuine  merit  ?" 

To  which  the  novelist  answered,  cryptically,  "If 
you  have  not  the  eyes  to  see  the  reason,  it  will  matter 
little  whether  you  know  it  or  not.  If  you  do  see  the 
reason,  and,  still,  produce  a  portrait  that  pleases  your 
sitter,  then  you  will  have  paid  the  price ;  you  will  re- 
ceive your  reward;  and" — the  speaker's  tone  grew 
sad  and  bitter — "you  will  be  what  I  am." 

73 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

With  this,  he  arose  abruptly  and,  without  another 
word,  stalked  into  the  hotel ;  the  dog  following  with 
quiet  dignity,  at  his  heels. 

From  the  beginning  of  their  acquaintance,  almost, 
the  novelist  and  the  artist  had  dropped  into  the  habit 
of  taking  their  meals  together.  At  breakfast,  the  next 
morning,  Conrad  Lagrange  reopened  the  conversation 
he  had  so  abruptly  closed  the  night  before.  "I  sup- 
pose," he  said,  "that  you  will  set  up  a  studio,  and  do 
the  thing  in  proper  style  ?" 

"Mrs.  Taine  told  me  of  a  place  that  is  for  rent,  and 
that  she  thinks  would  be  just  the  thing,"  returned  the 
young  man.  "It  is  across  the  road  from  that  big 
grove  owned  by  Mr.  Taine.  I  was  wondering  if  you 
would  care  to  walk  out  that  way  with  me  this  morn- 
ing, and  help  me  look  it  over." 

The  older  man's  hearty  acceptance  of  the  invitation 
assured  the  artist  of  his  genuine  interest,  and,  an  hour 
later — after  Aaron  King  had  interviewed  the  agent 
and  secured  the  keys,  with  the  privilege  of  inspecting 
the  premises — the  two  set  out  together. 

They  found  the  place  on  the  eastern  edge  of  the 
town;  half-hidden  by  the  orange  groves  that  sur- 
rounded it  on  every  side.  The  height  of  the  palms 
that  grew  along  the  road  in  front,  the  pepper  and 
eucalyptus  trees  that  overshadowed  the  house,  and  the 
size  of  the  orange- trees  that  shut  in  the  little  yard 
with  walls  of  green,  marked  the  place  as  having  been 
established  before  the  wealth  of  the  far-away  East  dis- 
covered the  peculiar  charm  of  the  Fairlands  hills. 
The  lawn,  the  walks,  and  the  drive  were  unkempt  and 
overgrown  with  weeds.  The  house  itself, — a  small 

74 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOKLD 

cottage  with  a  wide  porch  across  the  front  and  on  the 
side  to  the  west, — unpainted  for  many  seasons,  was 
tinted  by  the  brush  of  the  elements,  a  soft  and  restful 
gray. 

But  the  artist  and  his  friend,  as  they  approached, 
exclaimed  aloud  at  the  beauty  of  the  scene ;  for,  as  if 
rejoicing  in  their  freedom  from  restraint,  the  roses 
had  claimed  the  dwelling,  so  neglected  by  man,  as 
their  own.  Up  every  post  of  the  porch  they  had 
climbed ;  over  the  porch  roof,  they  spread  their  wealth 
of  color ;  over  the  gables,  screening  the  windows  with 
graceful  lattice  of  vine  and  branch  and  leaf  and 
bloom;  up  to  the  ridge  and  over  the  cornice,  to  the 
roof  of  the  house  itself — even  to  the  top  of  the  chim- 
ney, they  had  won  their  way — and  there,  as  if  in  an 
ecstasy  of  wanton  loveliness,  flung  a  spray  of  glorious, 
perfumed  beauty  high  into  the  air. 

On  the  front  porch,  the  men  turned  to  look  away 
over  the  gentle  slope  of  the  orange  groves,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  road,  to  the  towering  peaks  and  high  ridges 
of  the  mountains — gleaming  cold  and  white  in  the 
winter  of  their  altitude.  To  the  northeast,  San  Ber- 
nardino reared  his  head  in  lonely  majesty — looking 
directly  down  upon  the  foothills  and  the  feeble  dwell- 
ers in  the  valley  below.  Far  beyond,  and  surrounded 
by  the  higher  ridges  and  peaks  and  canyons  of  the 
range,  San  Gorgonio  sat  enthroned  in  the  skies — the 
ruler  of  them  all.  From  the  northeast,  westward, 
they  viewed  the  mighty  sweep  of  the  main  range  to 
Cajon  Pass  and  the  San  Gabriels,  beyond,  with  San 
Antonio,  Cucamonga,  and  their  sister  peaks  lifting 
their  heads  above  their  fellows.  In  the  immediate 

75 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

landscape,  no  house  or  building  was  to  be  seen.  The 
dark-green  mass  of  the  orange  groves  hid  every  work 
of  man's  building  between  them  and  the  tawny  foot- 
hills; save  the  gable  and  chimney  of  a  neighboring 
cottage  on  the  west. 

"Listen" — said  Conrad  Lagrange,  in  a  low  tone, 
moved  as  always  by  the  grandeur  and  beauty  of  the 
scene — "listen !  Don't  you  hear  them  calling  ?  Don't 
you  feel  the  mountains  sending  their  message  to  these 
poor  insects  who  squirm  and  wriggle  in  this  bit  of 
muck  men  call  their  world  ?  God,  man !  if  only  we, 
in  our  work,  would  heed  the  message  of  the  hills !" 

The  novelist  spoke  with  such  intensity  of  feeling — 
with  such  bitter  sadness  and  regret  in  his  voice — that 
Aaron  King  could  not  reply. 

Turning,  the  artist  unlocked  the  door,  and  they  en- 
tered the  cottage. 

They  found  the  interior  of  the  house  well  arranged, 
and  not  in  bad  repair.  "Just  the  thing  for  a  bache- 
lor's housekeeping" — was  the  painter's  verdict — "but 
for  a  studio — impossible,"  and  there  was  a  touch  of 
regret  in  his  voice. 

"Let's  continue  our  exploration,"  said  the  novelist, 
hopefully.  "There's  a  barn  out  there."  And  they 
went  out  of  the  house,  and  down  the  drive  on  the  cast- 
em  side  of  the  yard. 

Here,  again,  they  saw  the  roses  in  full  possession 
of  the  place — by  man,  deserted.  From  foundation  to 
roof,  the  building — a  small  simple  structure — was  al- 
most hidden  under  a  mass  of  vines.  There  was  one 
large  room  below ;  with  a  loft  above.  The  stable  was 
in  the  rear.  Built,  evidently,  at  a  later  date  than  the 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOKLD 

house,  the  building  was  in  better  repair.  The  walls, 
so  hidden  without  by  the  roses,  were  well  sided;  the 
floors  were  well  laid.  The  big,  sliding,  main  door 
opened  on  the  drive  in  front;  between  it  and  the 
corner,  to  the  west,  was  a  small  door ;  and  in  the  west- 
ern end,  a  window. 

Looking  curiously  from  this  window,  Conrad  La- 
grange  uttered  an  exclamation,  and  hurried  abruptly 
from  the  building.  The  artist  followed. 

From  the  end  of  the  barn,  and  extending,  the  full 
width  of  the  building,  to  the  west  line  of  the  yard,  was 
a  rose  garden — such  a  garden  as  Aaron  King  had 
never  seen.  On  three  sides,  the  little  plot  was  en- 
closed by  a  tall  hedge  of  Ragged  Robins;  above  the 
hedge,  on  the  south  and  west,  was  the  dark-green  wall 
of  the  orange  grove;  on  the  north,  the  pepper  and 
eucalyptus  trees  in  the  yard,  and  a  view  of  the  distant 
mountains;  and  on  the  east,  the  vine-hidden  end  of 
the  barn.  Against  the  southern  wall, — and,  so, 
directly  opposite  the  trellised,  vine-covered  arch  of 
the  entrance, — a  small,  lattice  bower,  with  a  rustic 
table  and  seats  within,  was  completely  covered,  as  was 
the  barn,  by  the  magically  woven  tapestry  of  the  flow- 
ers. In  the  corner  of  the  hedge  farthest  from  the  en- 
trance, they  found  a  narrow  gate.  Unlike  the  rest  of 
the  premises,  the  garden  was  in  perfect  order — the 
roses  trimmed  and  cared  for;  the  walks  neatly  edged 
and  clean ;  with  no  weed  or  sign  of  untidiness  or  ne£ 
lect  anywhere. 

The  two  men  had  come  upon  the  spot  so  suddenly 
— so  unexpectedly — the  contrast  with  the  neglected 
grounds  and  buildings  was  so  marked — that  they 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

looked  at  each  other  in  silence.  The  little  retreat — 
so  lovely,  so  hidden  by  its  own  beauty  from  the  world, 
so  cared  for  by  careful  hands — seemed  haunted  by  an 
invisible  spirit.  Very  quietly, — almost  reverently, — 
they  moved  about;  talking  in  low  tones,  as  though 
half  expecting — they  knew  not  what. 

"Some  one  loves  this  place,"  said  the  novelist, 
softly,  when  they  stood,  again,  in  the  entrance. 

And  the  artist  answered  in  the  same  hushed  voice, 
"I  wonder  what  it  means  ?" 

When  they  were  again  in  the  barn,  Aaron  King  be- 
came eagerly  enthusiastic  over  the  possibilities  of  the 
big  room.  "Some  rightly  toned  burlap  on  the  walls 
and  ceiling," — he  pointed  out, — "with  floor  covering 
and  rugs  in  harmony;  there" — rolling  back  the  big 
door  as  he  spoke — "your  north  light ;  some  hangings 
and  screens  to  hide  the  stairway  to  the  loft,  and  the 
stable  door;  your  entrance  over  here  in  the  corner, 
nicely  out  of  the  way ;  and  the  window  looking  into 
the  garden — it's  great  man,  great !" 

"And,"  answered  Conrad  Lagrange,  from  where  he 
stood  in  the  big  front  door,  "the  mountains!  Don't 
forget  the  mountains.  The  soft,  steady,  north  light 
on  your  canvas,  and  a  message  from  the  mountains 
to  your  soul,  through  the  same  window,  should  make 
it  a  good  place  to  work,  Mr.  Painter-man.  I  suppose 
over  here" — he  moved  away  from  the  window,  and 
spoke  in  his  mocking  way — "over  here,  you  will  have 
a  tea-table  for  the  ladies  of  the  circle  elect — who  will 
come  to,  'oh',  and,  'ah',  their  admiration  of  the  newly 
discovered  genius,  and  to  chatter  their  misunder- 
standings of  his  art.  Of  course,  there  will  be  a  page 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

in  velvet  and  gold.  By  all  means,  get  hold  of  an 
oriental  kid  of  some  kind — oriental  junk  is  quite  the 
rage  this  year.  You  should  take  advantage  of  every 
influence  that  can  contribute  to  your  success,  you 
know.  And,  whatever  you  do,  don't  fail  to  consult 
the  '  Goddess'  about  these  essentials  of  your  craft. 
Many  a  promising  genius  has  been  lost  to  fame, 
through  inviting  the  wrong  people  to  take  tea  in  his 
studio.  But" — he  finished  whimsically,  looking 
from  the  window  into  the  garden — "but  what  the 
devil  do  you  suppose  the  spirit  who  lives  out  there 
will  think  about  it  all." 


The  days  of  the  two  following  weeks  were  busy 
days  for  Aaron  King.  He  leased  the  place  in  the  or- 
ange groves,  and  set  men  to  work  making  it  habitable. 
The  lawn  and  grounds  were  trimmed  and  put  in 
order;  the  interior  of  the  house  was  renovated  by 
painter  and  paper-hanger;  and  the  barn,  under  the 
artist's  direction,  was  transformed  into  an  ideal 
studio.  There  was  a  trip  to  Los  Angeles — quite  for- 
tunately upon  a  day  when  Mrs.  Taine  must  go  to  the 
city  shopping — for  rugs  and  hangings;  and  another 
trip  to  purchase  the  tools  of  the  artist's  craft.  And, 
at  last,  there  was  a  Chinese  cook  and  housekeeper  to 
find ;  with  supplies  for  his  kitchen.  It  was  at  Conrad 
Lagrange's  suggestion,  that,  from  the  first,  every  one 
was  given  strict  orders  to  keep  out  of  the  rose  garden. 

Every  day,  the  novelist — accompanied,  always,  by 
Czar — walked  out  that  way  to  see  how  things  were 
progressing ;  and  often, — if  he  had  not  been  too  busy 

79 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

to  notice,— Aaron  King  might  have  seen  a  look  of 
wistfulness  in  the  keen,  baffling  eyes  of  the  famous 
man — so  world-weary  and  sad.  And,  while  he  did 
not  cease  to  mock  and  jeer  and  offer  sarcastic  advice 
to  his  younger  friend,  the  touch  of  pathos — that,  like 
a  minor  chord,  was  so  often  heard  in  his  most  caustic 
and  cruel  speeches — was  more  pronounced.  As  for 
Czar — he  always  returned  to  the  hotel  with  evident 
reluctance;  and  managed  to  express,  in  his  dog  way, 
the  thoughts  his  distinguished  master  would  not  put 
in  words. 

Very  often,  too,  the  big  touring  car  from  the  house 
on  Fairlands  Heights  stopped  in  front  of  the  cottage, 
while  the  occupants  inspected  the  premises,  and — 
with  many  exclamations  of  flattering  praise,  and  a 
few  suggestions — made  manifest  their  interest. 

In  time,  it  was  finished  and  ready — from  the  big 
easel  by  the  great,  north  window  in  the  studio,  to  the 
white-jacketed  Yee  Kee  in  the  kitchen.  When  the 
last  workman  was  gone  with  his  tools;  and  the  two 
men,  after  looking  about  the  place  for  an  hour,  were 
standing  on  the  front  porch ;  Conrad  Lagrange  said, 
"And  the  stage  is  set.  The  scene  shifters  are  off.  The 
audience  is  waiting.  Ring  up  the  curtain  for  the  next 
act.  Even  Czar  has  looked  upon  everything  and  calls 
it  good— heh  Czar  ?" 

The  dog  went  to  him ;  and,  for  some  minutes,  the 
novelist  looked  down  into  the  brown  eyes  of  his  four- 
footed  companion  who  seemed  so  to  understand.  Still 
fondling  the  dog, — without  looking  at  the  artist, — 
the  older  man  continued,  "You  will  have  your  things 


80 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOULD 

moved  over  in  the  morning,  I  suppose  ?  Or,  will  we 
lunch  together,  once  more  2" 

Aaron  King  laughed — as  a  boy  who  has  prepared  a 
surprise,  and  has  been  struggling  manfully  to  keep 
the  secret  until  the  proper  moment  should  arrive. 
Placing  his  hand  on  the  older  man's  shoulder,  he  an- 
swered meaningly,  "I  had  planned  that  we  would 
move  in  the  morning."  At  the  other's  puzzled  ex- 
pression, he  laughed  again. 

"We  ?"  said  the  novelist,  facing  his  friend,  quickly. 

"Come  here,"  returned  the  other.  "I  must  show 
you  something  you  haven't  seen." 

He  led  the  way  to  a  room  that  they  had  decided  he 
would  not  need,  and  the  door  of  which  was  locked. 
Taking  a  key  from  his  pocket,  he  handed  it  to  his 
friend. 

"What's  this?"  said  the  older  man,  looking  fool- 
ishly at  the  key  in  his  hand. 

"It's  the  key  to  that  door,"  returned  the  other,  with 
a  gleeful  chuckle.  Then— "Unlock  it." 

"Unlock  it?" 

"Sure — that's  what  I  gave  you  the  key  for." 

Conrad  Lagrange  obeyed.  Through  the  open  door, 
he  saw,  not  the  bare  and  empty  room  he  supposed  was 
there,  but  a  bedroom — charmingly  furnished,  com- 
plete in  every  detail.  Turning,  he  faced  his  com- 
panion silently,  inquiringly — with  a  look  that  Aaron 
King  had  never  before  seen  in  those  strange,  baffling 
eyes. 

"It's  yours" — said  the  artist,  hastily — "if  you  care 
to  come.  You'll  have  a  free  hand  here,  you  know; 


81 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

for  I  will  be  in  the  studio  much  of  the  time.  Kee  will 
cook  the  things  you  like.  You  and  Czar  can  come 
and  go  as  you  will.  There  is  the  arbor  in  the  rose 
garden,  you  know,  and  see  here" — he  stepped  to  the 
window — "I  chose  this  room  for  you,  because  it  looks 
out  upon  your  mountains." 

The  strange  man  stood  at  the  window  for,  what 
seemed  to  the  artist,  a  long  time.  Suddenly,  he 
turned  to  say  sharply,  "Young  man,  why  did  you  do 
this?" 

"Why" — stammered  the  other,  disconcerted — "'be- 
cause I  want  you — because  I  thought  you  would  like 
to  come.  I  beg  your  pardon — if  I  have  made  a  mis- 
take— but,  surely,  no  harm  has  been  done." 

"And  you  think  you  could  stand  living  with  me — 
for  any  length  of  time  ?" 

The  painter  laughed  with  relief.  "Oh,  that's  it! 
I  didn't  know  you  had  such  a  tender  conscience.  You 
scared  me  for  a  minuta  I  should  think  you  would 
know  by  this  time  that  you  can't  phase  me  with  your 
wicked  tongue." 

The  novelist's  face  twisted  into  a  grotesque  smile. 
"I  warn  you — I  will  flay  you  and  your  friends  just 
the  same.  You  need  it  for  the  good  of  your  soul." 

"As  often  and  as  hard  as  you  like" — returned  the 
other,  heartily — "just  so  it's  for  the  good  of  my  soul. 
You  will  come  ?" 

"You  will  permit  me  to  stand  my  share  of  the  ex- 
pense?" 

"Anything  you  like — if  you  will  only  come." 

The  older  man  said  gently, — for  the  first  time  call- 
ing the  artist  by  his  given  name, — "Aaron,  I  believe 

82 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

that  you  are  the  only  person  in  the  world  who  would 
really  want  me;  and  I  know  that  you  are  the  only 
person  in  the  world  to  whom  I  would  be  grateful  for 
such  an  invitation." 

The  artist  was  about  to  reply,  when  the  big  automo- 
bile stopped  in  front  of  the  house.  Czar,  on  the 
porch,  gave  a  low  growl  of  disapproval ;  and,  through 
the  open  door,  they  saw  Mr.  Taine  and  his  wife  with 
James  Rutlidge  and  Louise. 

The  novelist  said  something,  under  his  breath,  that 
had  a  vicious  sound — quite  unlike  his  words  of  the 
moment  before.  Czar,  in  disgust,  retreated  to  the 
shelter  of  Yee  Kee's  domain.  With  a  laugh,  the 
younger  man  went  out  to  meet  his  friends. 

"Are  you  at  home  this  afternoon,  Sir  Artist?" 
called  Mrs.  Taine,  gaily,  as  he  went  down  the  walk. 

"I  will  always  be  at  home  to  the  right  people,"  he 
answered,  greeting  the  other  members  of  the  party. 

As  they  moved  toward  the  house, — Mr.  Taine  chok- 
ing and  coughing,  his  daughter  chattering  and  ex- 
claiming, and  James  Rutlidge  critically  observing, — 
Mrs.  Taine  dropped  a  little  back  to  Aaron  King's 
side.  "And  are  you  really  established,  at  last  ?"  she 
asked  eagerly;  with  a  charming,  confidential  air. 

"We  move  to-morrow  morning,"  he  answered. 

"We  ?"  she  questioned. 

"Conrad  Lagrange  and  I.  He  is  going  to  live  with 
me,  you  know." 

"Oh!" 

It  is  remarkable  how  much  meaning  a  woman  can 
crowd  into  that  one  small  syllable ;  particularly,  when 
she  draws  a  little  away  from  you  as  she  speaks  it 

83 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

"Why"  he  murmured  apologetically,  "don't  you 
approve  ?" 

Mrs.  Taine's  beautiful  eyebrows  went  up  inquir- 
ingly— "And  why  should  I  either  approve  or  dis- 
approve ?" 

The  young  man  was  saved  by  the  arrival  of  his 
guests  at  the  porch  steps,  and  by  the  appearance  of 
Conrad  Lagrange,  in  the  doorway. 

"How  delightful!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Taine,  heart- 
ily; as  she,  in  turn,  greeted  the  famous  novelist. 
"Mr.  King  was  just  telling  me  that  you  were  going 
to  share  this  dear  little  place  with  him.  I  quite  envy 
you  both." 

The  others  had  passed  into  the  house. 

"You  are  sometimes  guilty  of  saying  twisty  things 
yourself,  aren't  you?"  returned  the  man;  and,  as  he 
spoke,  his  remarkable  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  as 
though  reading  her  innermost  thoughts. 

She  flushed  under  his  meaning  gaze,  but  carried  it 
off  gaily  with — "Oh  dear !  I  wonder  if  my  maid  has 
hooked  me  up  properly,  this  time  ?" 

They  left  Mr.  Taine  in  an  easy  chair,  with  a  bottle 
of  his  favorite  whisky;  and  went  over  the  place — 
from  the  arbor  in  the  rose  garden  to  Yee  Kee's  pan- 
try— Mr.  Rutlidge,  critically  and  authoritatively  ap- 
proving; Louise,  effervescing  the  same  sugary  noth- 
ings at  every  step;  Mrs.  Taine,  with  a  pretty  air  of 
proprietorship;  Conrad  Lagrange,  thoughtfully 
watching;  and  Aaron  King,  himself,  irresponsibly 
gay  and  boyishly  proud  as  he  exhibited  his  achieve- 
ments. 


84 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

In  the  studio,  Mrs.  Taine — standing  before  the  big 
easel — demanded  to  know  of  the  artist,  when  he 
would  begin  her  portrait — she  was  so  interested,  so 
eager  to  begin — how  soon  could  she  come?  Louise 
assumed  a  worshipful  attitude,  and,  gazing  at  the 
young  man  with  reverent  eyes,  waited  breathlessly. 
James  Rutlidge  drew  near,  condescendingly  attentive, 
to  the  center  of  attraction.  Conrad  Lagrange  turned 
his  back. 

"Really,"  murmured  the  painter,  "I  hope  you  will 
not  be  too  impatient,  Mrs.  Taine.  I  fear  I  cannot  be 
ready  for  some  time  yet.  I  suppose  I  must  confess 
to  being  over-sensitive  to  my  environment ;  for  it  is  a 
fact  that  my  working  mood  does  not  come  upon  me 
readily  amid  strange  surroundings.  When  I  have 
become  acclimated,  as  it  were,  I  will  be  ready  for 
you." 

"How  wonderful!"  breathed  Louise. 

"Quite  right,"  agreed  Mr.  Rutlidge. 

"Whenever  you  are  ready,"  said  J.Irs.  Taine,  sub- 
missively. 

When  their  friends  from  the  Hei  ^hts  were  gone, 
Conrad  Lagrange  looked  the  artist  u  )  and  down,  as 
he  said  with  cutting  sarcasm,  "You  did  that  very 
nicely.  Over-sensitive  to  your  environment,  hell !  If 
you  are  a  bit  fine  strung,  you  have  no  business  to 
make  a  show  of  it.  It's  a  weakness,  not  a  virtue. 
And  the  man  who  makes  capital  out  of  any  man's 
weakness, — even  of  his  own, — is  either  a  criminal  or 
a  fool  or  both." 

Then  they  went  back  to  the  hotel  for  dinner. 


85 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

The  next  morning,  the  artist  and  the  novelist 
moved  from  the  hotel,  to  establish  themselves  in  the 
little  house  in  the  orange  groves — the  little  house 
with  its  unobstructed  view  of  the  mountains,  and  with 
its  rose  garden,  so  mysteriously  tended. 


86 


CHAPTER  VI 


AN  UNKNOWN  FRIEND 

HEN  Yee  Kee  announced  lunch,  the  ar- 
tist, the  novelist,  and  the  dog  were  settled 
in  their  new  home.  In  the  afternoon,  the 
painter  spent  an  hour  or  two  fussing  over 
portfolios  of  old  sketches,  in  his  studio; 
while  Conrad  Lagrange  and  Czar  lounged 
on  the  front  porch. 

Once,  the  dog  rose  quietly,  and,  walking  sedately 
to  the  edge  of  the  porch  toward  the  west,  stood  for 
some  minutes  gazing  intently  into  the  dark  green 
mass  of  the  orange  grove.  At  last,  as  if  concluding 
that  whatever  it  was  it  was  all  right,  he  went  calmly 
back  to  his  place  beside  the  novelist's  chair. 

"Do  you  know," — said  the  artist,  as  they  sat  on 
the  porch  that  evening,  with  their  after-dinner  pipes, 
— "I  believe  this  old  place  is  haunted." 

"If  it  isn't,  it  ought  to  be,"  answered  the  other, 
contentedly — playing  with  Czar's  silky  ears.  "A 
good  ghost  would  fit  in  nicely  here,  wouldn't  it — or 
he,  or  she.  Its  spookship  would  travel  far  to  find  a 
more  delightful  place  for  spooking  in,  and — provid- 
ing, of  course,  she  were  a  perfectly  respectable  hant — 
what  a  charming  addition  to  our  family  he  would 
make.  When  it  was  weary  of  moping  and  mowing 
and  sobbing  and  wailing  and  gibbering,  she  could 

87 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

curl  up  at  the  foot  of  your  bed  and  sleep ;  as  Czar, 
here,  curls  up  and  sleeps  at  the  foot  of  mine.  A 
good  ghost,  you  know — if  he  becomes  really  attached 
to  you — is  as  constant  and  faithful  and  affectionate 
and  companionable  as  a  good  dog." 

"B-r-r-r,"  said  the  artist.  And  Czar  turned  to 
look  at  him,  questioningly. 

"All  the  same" — the  painter  continued — "when 
I  was  out  there  in  the  studio,  I  could  feel  some  one 
watching  me — you  know  the  feeling." 

Conrad  Lagrange  returned  mockingly,  "I  trust 
your  over-sensitive,  artistic  temperament  is  not  to  be 
so  influenced  by  our  ghostly  visitor  that  you  will  be 
unfitted  for  your  work." 

The  other  laughed.  Then  he  said  seriously,  "Jok- 
ing aside,  Lagrange,  I  feel  a  presentiment — I  can't 
put  it  into  words — but — I  feel  that  I  am  going  to 
begin  the  real  work  of  my  life  right  here.  I" — he 
hesitated — "it  seems  to  me  that  I  can  sense  some  in- 
fluence that  I  can't  define — it's  the  mystery  of  the 
rose  garden,  perhaps,"  he  finished  with  another  short 
laugh. 

The  man,  who,  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  had  won  so 
large  a  measure  of  the  success  that  his  friend  desired ; 
and  whose  life  was  so  embittered  by  the  things  for 
which  he  was  envied  by  many;  made  no  reply  other 
than  his  slow,  twisted  smile. 

Silently,  they  watched  the  purple  shadows  of  the 
mountains  deepen ;  and  saw  the  outlines  of  the  tawny 
foothills  grow  vague  and  dim,  until  they  were  lost  in 
the  dusky  monotone  of  the  evening.  The  last  faint 


88 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOULD 

tint  of  sunset  color  went  from  the  sky  back  of  the  San 
Gabriels;  while,  close  to  the  mountain  peaks  and 
ridges,  the  stars  came  out.  The  rows  and  the  con- 
tour of  the  orange  groves  could  no  longer  be  distin- 
guished; the  forms  of  the  nearby  trees  were  lost — 
the  rich,  lustrous  green  of  their  foliage  brushed  out 
with  the  dull  black  of  the  night ;  while  the  twinkling 
lights  of  the  distant  towns  and  hamlets,  in  the  valley 
below,  shone  as  sparkling  jewels  on  the  inky,  velvet 
robe  that,  fold  on  fold,  lay  over  the  landscape. 

When  the  two  had  smoked  in  silence,  for  some 
time,  the  artist  said  slowly,  "You  knew  my  mother 
very  well,  did  you  not,  Mr.  Lagrange  ?" 

"We  were  children  together,  Aaron."  As  he  spoke, 
the  man's  deep  voice  was  gentle,  as  always,  when  the 
young  man's  mother  was  mentioned. 

Again,  for  a  little,  neither  spoke.  As  they  sat  look- 
ing away  to  the  mountains,  each  seemed  occupied 
with  his  own  thoughts.  Yet  each  felt  that  the  other, 
to  a  degree,  understood  what  he,  himself,  was  think- 
ing. 

Once  more,  the  artist  broke  the  silence, — facing  his 
mother's  friend  with  quiet  resolution, — as  though  he 
felt  himself  forced  to  speak  but  knew  not  exactly  how 
to  begin.  "Did  you  know  her  well — after — after  my 
father's  death — and  while  I  was  abroad  ?" 

The  other  bowed  his  head—  "Yes." 

"Very  well?" 

"Very  well." 

As  if  at  loss  for  words,  Aaron  King  still  hesitated. 
"Mr.  Lagrange,"  he  said,  at  last,  "there  are  some 


89 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

things  about — about  mother — that  I  would  like  to  tell 
you — that  I  think  she  would  want  me  to  tell  you, 
under  the  circumstances." 

"Yes,"  said  Conrad  Lagrange,  gently. 

"Well, — to  begin, — you  know,  perhaps,  how  much 
mother  and  I  have  always  been — "  his  fine  voice  broke 
and  the  older  man  bowed  his  head ;  but,  with  a  slight 
lift  of  his  determined  chin,  the  painter  went  on  calm- 
ly— "to  each  other.  After  father's  death,  until  I  was 
seventeen,  we  were  never  separated.  She  was  my 
only  teacher.  Then  I  went  away  to  school,  seeing  her 
only  during  my  vacations,  which  we  always  spent,  to- 
gether, in  the  country.  Three  years  ago,  I  went 
abroad  to  finish  my  study.  I  did  not  see  her  again 
until — until  I  was  called  home." 

"I  know,"  came  in  low  tones  from  the  other. 

"But,  sir,  while  it  seemed  necessary  that  I  should 
be  away  from  home, — that  we  should  be  separated, — 
all  through  this  period,  we  exchanged  almost  daily 
letters;  planning  for  the  future,  and  looking  for- 
ward to  the  time  when  we  could,  again,  be  together." 

"I  know,  Aaron.  It  was  very  unusual — and  very 
beautiful." 

"When  we  were  together,  before  I  went  away,  I 
was  a  mere  lad,"  continued  the  artist.  "I  knew  in  a 
general  way  that  father  had  been  a  successful  lawyer, 
and  quite  prominent  in  politics ;  and — because  there 
was  no  change  in  our  manner  of  living  after  his  death, 
and  there  seemed  to  be  always  money  for  whatever  we 
wanted,  I  suppose — I  assumed,  thoughtlessly,  that 
there  would  always  be  plenty.  During  the  years 
while  I  was  at  school,  there  was  never,  in  any  way, 

90 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

the  slightest  hint  in  mother's  letters  that  would  lead 
me  to  question  the  abundance  of  her  resources.  When 
they  called  me  home, — "  his  voice  broke,  " — I  found 
my  mother  dying — almost  in  poverty — our  home 
stripped  of  the  art  treasures  she  loved — her  own 
room,  even,  empty  of  everything  save  the  barest 
necessities."  In  bitter  sorrow  and  shame,  the  young 
man  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

The  novelist,  his  gaunt  features  twitching  with  the 
emotion  that  even  his  long  schooling  in  the  tragedies 
of  life  could  not  suppress,  waited  silently. 

When  the  artist  had  regained,  in  a  measure,  his 
self-control,  he  continued, — and  every  word  came 
from  him  in  shame  and  humiliation, — "Before  she 
died,  she  told  me  about — my  father.  In  the  settle- 
ment of  his  affairs,  at  the  time  of  his  death,  it  ap- 
peared that  he  had  taken  advantage  of  the  confidence 
of  certain  clients  and  had  betrayed  his  trust;  appro- 
priating large  sums  to  his  own  interests.  He  had 
even  taken  advantage  of  mother's  influence  in  certain 
circles,  and,  relying  upon  her  unquestioning  faith  in 
his  integrity,  had  made  her  an  unconscious  instru- 
ment in  furthering  his  schemes." 

Conrad  Lagrange  made  as  if  to  speak,  but  checked 
himself  and  waited  for  the  other  to  continue. 

Aaron  King  went  on;  "Out  of  regard  for  my 
mother,  the  matter  was  kept  as  quiet  as  possible. 
The  one  who  suffered  the  heaviest  loss  was  able  to 
protect  her — in  a  measure.  All  the  others  were  fully 
reimbursed.  But  mother — it  would  have  been  easier 
for  her  if  she  had  died  then.  She  withdrew  from  her 
friends  and  from  the  life  she  loved — she  denied  her- 

91 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

self  to  all  who  sought  her  and  devoted  her  life  to  me. 
Above  all,  she  planned  to  keep  me  in  ignorance  of  the 
truth  until  I  should  be  equipped  to  win  the  place  in 
the  world  that  she  coveted  for  me.  It  was  for  that> 
she  sent  me  away,  and  kept  me  from  home.  As  the 
demands  for  my  educational  expenses  grew  naturally 
heavier,  she  supplemented  the  slender  resources,  left 
in  the  final  settlement  of  my  father's  estate,  by  sacri- 
ficing the  treasures  of  her  home,  and  by  giving  up  the 
luxuries  to  which  she  had  been  accustomed  from 
childhood.  She  even  provided  for  me  after  her  death 
— not  wealth,  but  a  comfortable  amount,  sufficient  to- 
support  me  in  good  circumstances  until  I  can  gain 
recognition  and  an  income  from  my  work."  • 

Under  the  lash  of  his  memories,  the  young  man 
sprang  to  his  feet. 

"In  God's  name,  Lagrange,  why  did  not  some  one 
tell  me?  I  did  not  know — I  did  not  know — I 
thought — O  mother,  mother,  mother — why  did  you 
do  it  ?  Why  was  I  not  told  ?  All  these  years  I  have 
lived  a  selfish  fool,  and  you — you — I  would  have 
given  up  everything — I  would  have  worked  in  a 
ditch,  rather  than  accept  this." 

The  deep,  quiet  voice  of  Conrad  Lagrange  broke 
the  stillness  that  followed  the  storm  of  the  artist's 
passionate  words.  "And  that  is  the  answer,  Aaron. 
She  knew,  too  well,  that  you  would  not  have  accepted 
her  sacrifice,  if  you  had  known.  That  is  why  she 
kept  the  secret  until  you  had  finished  your  education. 
She  forbade  her  friends — she  forbade  me  to  inter- 
fere. And  don't  you  see  that  she  was  right  ?  Don't 
you  see  it  ?  We  would  have  done  her  the  greatest  in- 

92 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

justice  if  we  had,  against  her  will,  deprived  her  of 
this  privilege.  Her  splendid  pride,  her  high  sense 
of  honor,  her  nobility  of  spirit  demanded  the  sacri- 
fice. It  was  her  right.  God  forgive  me — I  tried  to 
make  her  see  it  otherwise — but  she  knew  best.  She 
always  knew  best,  Aaron.  Her  only  hope  of  regain- 
ing for  you  that  self-respect  and  that  position  in  life 
to  which  you — by  right  of  birth  and  natural  endow- 
ment— are  entitled,  was  in  you.  The  name  which 
she  had  given  to  you  could  be  restored  to  honor  bj 
you  only.  To  train  and  equip  you  for  your  work, 
and  to  enable  you,  unhampered  by  need,  to  gain  your 
footing,  was  the  determined  passion  of  her  life.  Her 
sacrifice,  her  suffering  to  that  end,  was  the  only  res- 
titution she  could  make  to  you  for  that  which  your 
father  had  squandered.  Her  proud  spirit,  her  fine 
intelligence,  her  mother  love  for  you,  demanded  it." 

"I  know,"  returned  the  artist.  "She  told  me  be- 
fore she  died.  She  made  me  understand.  She  said 
that  it  was  my  inheritance.  She  asked  for  my  prom- 
ise that  I  would  be  true  to  her  purpose.  Her  last 
words  were  an  expression  of  her  confidence  that  I 
would  not  disappoint  her —  that  I  would  win  a  place 
and  name  that  would  wipe  out  the  shame  of  my 
father's  dishonor.  And  I  will,  Lagrange,  I  must. 
Mother — mother  shall  not  be  disappointed — she  shall 
not  be  disappointed." 

"No," — said  the  older  man,  so  softly  that  the  other, 
torn  by  the  passion  of  his  own  thoughts,  did  not 
hear, — "No,  Aaron,  your  mother  will  not  be  disap- 
pointed." 

For  a  time  longer  they  sat  in  silence.     Then  the 

03 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOELD 

young  man  said,  "I  wish  I  knew  the  name  of  my 
mother's  friend — the  one  who  suffered  the  heaviest 
loss  through  my  father,  and  who  so  generously  pro- 
tected her  in  the  crisis.  I  would  like  to  thank  him, 
at  least.  I  begged  her  to  tell  me,  but  she  would  not. 
She  said  he  would  not  want  me  to  know — that  for  me 
to  attempt  to  reimburse  him  would,  to  his  mind,  rob 
him  of  his  real  reward." 

Conrad  Lagrange,  his  head  bowed,  spoke  quietly  to 
the  dog  at  his  feet.  Rising,  Czar  laid  his  soft  muzzle 
on  his  master's  knee  and  looked  up  into  the  homely, 
world-worn  face.  Gently,  the  strange  man — so  lonely 
and  embittered  in  the  fame  that  he  had  won — at  a 
price — stroked  the  brown  head.  "Your  mother  knew 
best,  Aaron,"  he  said  slowly,  without  looking  at  his 
companion.  "You  must  believe  that  she  knew  best 
Her  beautiful  spirit  could  not  lead  her  astray.  She 
was  right  in  this,  also.  Your  sentiment  does  you 
honor,  but  you  must  respect  her  wish.  Whoever  the 
man  was — she  had  reasons,  I  am  sure,  for  feeling  as 
she  did — that  it  would  be  better  for  you  not  to  know. 
It  was  some  one,  perhaps,  whose  influence  upon  you, 
she  had  cause  to  fear." 

"It  was  very  strange,"  returned  the  artist,  hesitat- 
ingly. "Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  say  it.  But  I  felt 
that,  as  you  suggest,  she  feared  for  me  to  know.  She 
seemed  to  want  to  tell  me,  but  did  not,  for  my  sake. 
It  was  very  strange." 

Conrad  Lagrange  made  no  reply. 

"I  wanted  you  to  know  about  mother," — continued 
the  artist, — "because  I  would  like  you  to  understand 
why — why  I  must  succeed  in  my  work." 

94 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOELD 

The  older  man  smiled  to  himself,  in  the  dusk.  "I 
have  always  known  why  you  must  succeed,  Aaron," 
he  returned.  "I  have  never  questioned  your  motives. 
I  question  only  your  understanding  of  success.  I 
question — if  you  will  pardon  me — your  understand- 
ing of  your  mother's  wish  for  you." 

Then,  in  one  of  those  rare  momentary  moods,  when 
he  seemed  to  reveal  to  his  young  friend  his  real  na- 
ture that  lay  so  deeply  hidden  from  the  world,  he 
added,  "You  are  right,  Aaron.  This  place  is  haunted 
— haunted  by  the  spirit  of  the  mountains,  yonder — 
haunted  by  the  spirit  of  the  rose  garden,  out  there. 
The  silent  strength  of  the  hills,  and  the  loveliness  of 
the  garden  will  attend  you  in  your  studio,  as  you 
work.  I  do  not  wonder  that  you  feel  a  presentiment 
that  your  artistic  future  is  to  be  shaped  here;  for 
between  these  influences  and  the  other  influences  that 
will  be  brought  to  bear  upon  you,  you  will  be  forced 
to  decide.  May  the  God  of  all  true  art  and  artists 
help  you  to  make  no  mistake.  Listen !" 

As  though  in  answer  to  the  solemn  words  of  the 
man  who  spoke  from  the  fullness  of  a  life-long  ex- 
perience, and  from  the  depths  of  a  life-old  love,  a 
strain  of  music  came  from  out  the  fragrant  darkness. 
Somewhere,  hidden  in  the  depths  of  the  orange  grove, 
the  soul  of  a  true  musician  was  seeking  expression  in 
the  tones  of  a  violin. 

Softly,  sadly,  with  poignant  clearness,  the  music 
lifted  into  the  night — low  and  pleadingly  at  first; 
then  stronger  and  more  vibrant  with  feeling,  as 
though  sweetly  insistent  in  its  call;  swelling  next  in 
volume  and  passion,  as  though  in  warning  of  some 

95 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

threatening  evil;  ringing  with  loving  fear;  sobbing, 
wailing,  moaning,  in  anguish ;  clearly,  gloriously,  tri- 
umphant, at  last;  then  sinking  into  solemn,  reverent 
benediction — losing  itself,  finally,  in  the  darkness, 
even  as  it  had  come. 

The  two  men,  so  fashioned  by  nature  to  receive 
such  music,  listened  with  emotions  they  could  not 
have  put  into  words.  Eor  the  moment,  the  music  to 
them  was  the  voice  of  the  guarding,  calling,  warning 
spirit  of  the  mountains  that,  in  their  calm,  majestic 
strength,  were  so  far  removed  from  the  petty  passions 
and  longings  of  the  baser  world  at  their  feet — it  was 
the  voice  of  the  loving  intimacy,  the  sweet  purity, 
and  the  sacred  beauty  of  the  spirit  of  the  garden.  It 
was  as  though  the  things  of  which  Conrad  Lagrange 
had  just  spoken  so  reverently  had  cried  aloud  to  them, 
out  of  the  night,  in  confirmation  of  his  words. 


96 


CHAPTER  VII 


MRS.  TAINE  IN  QUAKER  GRAY 

AROST  KING  seemed  loth  to  begin  his 
work  on  the  portrait  of  Mrs.  Taine.  Day 
after  day,  without  apparent  reason,  he  put 
it  off — spending  the  hours  in  wandering 
aimlessly  about  the  place,  idling  on  the 
porch,  or  doing  nothing  in  his  studio.  He 
would  start  from  the  house  to  the  building  at  the  end 
of  the  rose  garden,  as  though  moved  by  some  clearly 
defined  purpose — and  then,  for  an  hour  or  more, 
would  dawdle  among  the  things  of  his  craft,  with  ir- 
resolute mind — turning  over  his  sketches  and  draw- 
ings with  uncertain  hands,  as  though  searching  for 
something  he  knew  was  not  there;  toying  with  his 
paints  and  brushes ;  or  sitting  before  his  empty  easel, 
looking  away  through  the  big  window  to  the  distant 
mountains.  He  seemed  incapable  of  fixing  his  mind 
upon  the  task  to  which  he  attached  so  much  impor- 
tance. Several  times,  Mrs.  Taine  called,  but  he 
begged  her  to  be  patient ;  and  she,  with  pretended  awe 
of  the  moods  of  genius,  waited. 

Conrad  Lagrange  jeered  and  mocked,  offered  sneer- 
ing advice  or  sarcastic  compliment ;  and,  under  it  all, 
was  keenly  watchful  and  sympathetic — understand- 
ing better  than  the  artist  himself,  perhaps,  the  secret 
of  the  painter's  hesitation.  Every  day, — sometimes 

97 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

in  the  morning,  sometimes  in  the  afternoon  or  even- 
ing,— the  unseen  musician  in  the  orange  grove 
wrought  for  them  melodies  that,  whether  grave  or 
gay,  always  carried,  somehow,  the  feeling  that  had  so 
moved  them  in  the  mysterious  darkness  of  that  first 
evening. 

They  knew,  now,  of  course,  that  the  musician  lived 
in  the  neighboring  house — the  gable  and  chimney  of 
which  was  just  visible  above  the  orange-trees.  But 
that  was  all.  Obedient  to  some  whimsical  impulse 
that  prompted  them  both,  and  was  born,  no  doubt,  of 
the  circumstance  and  mood  of  that  first  evening,  they 
did  not  seek  to  learn  more.  They  feared — though 
they  did  not  say  it — that  to  learn  the  identity  of  the 
musician  would  rob  them  of  the  peculiar  pleasure 
they  found  in  the  music,  itself.  So  they  spoke  always 
of  their  unknown  neighbor  in  a  fanciful  vein,  as  in 
like  humor  they  spoke  of  the  spirit  that  Aaron  King 
still  insisted  haunted  the  place,  or  as  they  alluded  to 
the  mystery  of  the  carefully  tended  rose  garden. 

When  the  artist  could  put  it  off  no  longer,  a  day 
was  finally  set  when  Mrs.  Taine  was  to  come  for  the 
beginning  of  her  portrait.  The  appointed  hour  found 
the  artist  in  his  studio.  A  canvas  stood  ready  upon 
the  easel;  palette,  colors  and  brushes  were  at  hand. 
The  painter  was  standing  at  the  big,  north  window, 
looking  up  away  to  the  mountains — the  mountains 
that  the  novelist  said  called  so  insistently.  Suddenly, 
he  turned  his  head  to  listen.  Sweetly  clear  and  low, 
through  the  green  wall  of  the  orange-trees,  came  the 
music  of  that  hidden  violin. 


98 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

As  he  stood  there, — with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
mountains,  listening  to  the  spirit  that  spoke  in  the 
tones  of  the  unseen  instrument, — Aaron  King  knew, 
all  at  once,  that  the  passing  moment  was  one  of  those 
rare  moments — that  come,  all  unexpectedly — when, 
with  prophetic  vision,  one  sees  clearly  the  end  of  the 
course  he  pursues  and  the  destiny  that  waits  him  at 
its  completion.  As  clearly,  too,  he  saw  the  other  way, 
and  knew  the  meaning  of  the  vision.  But  seldom 
is  the  strength  given  to  man,  in  such  moments,  to 
choose  for  himself.  Though  he  may  see  the  other 
way  clearly,  his  feet  cling  to  the  path  he  has  elected 
to  follow;  nor  will  he,  unless  some  one  takes  him  by 
the  hand  saying,  "Come,"  turn  aside. 

A  voice,  not  at  all  in  harmony  with  the  music, 
broke  upon  the  artist's  consciousness.  He  turned  to 
see  Mrs.  Taine  standing  expectantly  in  the  open  door. 
"Hush!"  said  the  painter,  still  under  the  spell  of  that 
moment  so  big  with  possibilities.  "Listen," — with 
a  gesture,  he  checked  her  advance, — "listen." 

A  look  of  haughty  surprise  flashed  over  the 
woman's  too  perfect  features.  Then,  as  her  ear 
caught  the  tones  of  the  violin,  she  half  turned — but 
only  for  a  moment. 

"Very  clever,  isn't  it,"  she  said  as  she  came  for- 
ward. "It  must  be  old  Professor  Becker.  He  lives 
somewhere  around  here,  I  understand.  They  say 
he  is  very  good." 

The  artist  looked  at  her  for  an  instant,  in  amaze- 
ment. Then,  as  his  normal  mind  asserted  itself,  he 
burst  into  an  embarrassed  laugh. 


99 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOELD 

At  her  look  of  puzzled  inquiry,  he  said,  "I  beg 
your  pardon,  Mrs.  Taine.  I  did  not  realize  how 
harshly  I  greeted  you.  The  fact  is  I — I  was  dream- 
ing"— he  turned  suggestively  toward  the  canvas  upon 
the  easel.  "You  see  I  was  expecting  you — I  was 
thinking — then  the  music  came — and — well — when 
you  actually  appeared  in  the  flesh,  I  did  not  for  the 
moment  realize  that  it  was  really  you." 

"How  charming  of  you!"  she  returned.  "To  be 
made  the  subject  of  an  artist's  dream — really  it  is 
quite  the  nicest  compliment  I  have  ever  received. 
Tell  me,  do  you  like  me  in  this  ?"  she  slipped  the 
wrap  she  wore  from  her  shoulders,  and  stood  before 
him,  gowned  in  the  simple,  gray  dress  of  a  Quaker 
Maid.  Deliberately,  she  turned  her  beautiful  self 
about  for  his  critical  inspection.  Moving  to  and  fro, 
sitting,  half-reclining,  standing — in  various  graceful 
poses  she  invited,  challenged,  dared,  his  closest  atten- 
tion— professional  attention,  of  course — to  every 
curve  and  detail. 

In  spite  of  its  simplicity  of  color  and  line,  the 
gown  still  bore  the  unmistakable  stamp  of  the  wear- 
er's world.  The  severity  of  line  was  subtly  made  to 
emphasize  the  voluptuousness  of  the  body  that  was 
covered  but  not  hidden.  The  quiet  color  was  made 
to  accentuate  the  flesh  the  dress  concealed  only  to 
reveal.  The  very  lack  of  ornament  but  served  to 
center  the  attention  upon  the  charms  that  so  loudly 
professed  to  scorn  them.  It  was  worldliness  speaking 
in  the  quiet  voice  of  religion.  It  was  vulgarity  adver- 
tising itself  in  terms  of  good  taste.  She  had  made 
modesty  the  handmaiden  of  blatant  immodesty,  and 

100 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOKLD 

the  daring  impudence  of  it  all  fairly  stunned  the 
painter. 

"Oh  dear!"  she  said,  watching  his  face,  "I  fear 
you  don't  like  it,  at  all — and  I  thought  it  such  a 
beautiful  little  gown.  You  told  me  to  wear  whatever 
I  pleased,  you  know." 

"It  is  a  beautiful  gown,"  he  said — then  added 
impulsively,  "and  you  are  beautiful  in  it.  You  would 
be  beautiful  in  anything." 

She  shook  her  head ;  favoring  him  with  an  under- 
standing smile.  "You  say  that  to  please  me.  I  can 
see  that  you  don't  like  me  this  way." 

"But  I  do,"  he  insisted.  "I  like  you  that  way, 
immensely.  I  was  a  bit  surprised,  that's  all.  You 
see,  I  thought,  of  course,  that  you  would  select  an 
evening  gown  of  some  sort — something,  you  know, 
that  would  fit  your  social  position — your  place  in  the 
world.  In  this  costume,  the  beauty  of  your  shoul- 
ders—" 

Lowering  her  eyes  as  if  embarrassed,  she  said 
coldly,  "The  beauty  of  my  shoulders  is  not  for  the 
public.  I  have  never  worn — I  will  not  wear — one  of 
those  dreadful,  immodest  gowns." 

Aaron  King  was  bewildered.  Suddenly,  he  remem- 
bered what  Conrad  Lagrange  had  said  about  her  fad. 
But  after  so  frankly  exhibiting  herself  before  him, 
dressed  as  she  was  in  a  gown  that  was  deliberately 
planned  to  advertise  her  physical  charms,  to  be  par- 
ticular about  baring  her  shoulders  in  a  conventional 
costume — !  It  was  quite  too  much. 

"Again,  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Taine,"  he  man- 
aged to  say.  "I  did  not  know.  Under  the  circum- 

101 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

stances,  this  is  exactly  the  thing.  Your  portrait,  in 
'what  is  so  frankly  a  costume  assumed  for  the  purpose, 
takes  us  out  of  the  dilemma  very  nicely,  indeed." 

"Why,  that's  exactly  what  I  thought,"  she  re- 
turned, eagerly.  "And  this  is  so  in  keeping  with  my 
real  tastes — don't  you  see  ?  A  real  portrait — I  mean 
a  serious  work  of  art,  you  know — should  always  be 
something  more  than  a  mere  likeness,  should  it  not  ? 
Don't  you  think  that  to  be  genuinely  good,  a  portrait 
must  reveal  the  spirit  and  character — must  portray 
the  soul,  as  well  as  the  features  ?  I  do  so  want  this 
to  be  a  truly  great  picture — for  your  sake."  Her 
manner  seemed  to  say  that  she  was  doing  it  all  for 
him.  "I  have  never  permitted  any  one  to  paint  my 
portrait  before,  you  know,"  she  added  meaningly. 

"You  are  very  kind,  Mrs.  Taine,"  he  returned 
gravely.  "Believe  me,  I  do  appreciate  this  oppor- 
tunity. I  shall  do  my  best  to  express  my  appreciation 
tere" — he  indicated  the  canvas  on  the  easel. 

When  his  sitter  was  posed  to  his  liking,  and  the 
artist,  with  a  few  bold,  sweeping,  strokes  of  the  char- 
coal, had  roughed  out  his  subject  on  the  canvas,  and 
was  bending  over  his  color-box — he  said,  casually,  to 
put  her  at  ease,  "You  came  alone  this  afternoon,  did 
you?" 

"Oh,  no,  indeed!  I  brought  Louise  with  me.  I 
shall  always  bring  her,  or  some  ona  One  cannot  be 
too  careful,  you  know,"  she  added  with  simulated 
artlessness. 

The  painter,  studying  her  face,  replied  mechanic- 
ally, "No  indeed." 

As  he  turned  back  to  his  canvas,  Mrs.  Taine  con- 

102 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

tinued,  "I  left  her  in  the  house,  with  a  box  of  choco- 
lates and  a  novel.  I  felt  that  you  would  rather 
we  were  alone." 

"Please  don't  look  down,"  said  the  artist.  "I  want 
your  eyes  about  here" — he  indicated  a  picture  on  the 
wall,  a  little  back  and  to  the  left  of  where  he  stood 
at  the  easel. 

After  this,  there  was  silence  in  the  studio,  for  a 
little  while.  Mrs.  Taine  obediently  kept  the  pose; 
her  eyes  upon  the  point  the  artist  had  indicated ;  but 
— as  the  man,  himself,  was  almost  directly  in  her 
line  of  vision — it  was  easy  for  her  to  watch  him  at 
his  work,  when  his  eyes  were  on  his  canvas  or  palette. 
The  arrangement  was  admirable  in  that  it  relieved 
the  tedium  of  the  hour  for  the  sitter;  and  gave  her 
face  an  expression  of  animated  interest  that,  truth- 
fully fixed  upon  the  canvas,  should  insure  the  fame 
and  future  of  any  painter. 

It  would  be  quite  too  much  to  say  that  Aaron 
King  became  absorbed  in  his  occupation.  Thorough 
master  of  the  tools  of  his  craft,  and  of  his  own 
technic,  as  well ;  he  was  interested  in  the  mere  exer- 
cising of  his  skill,  but  he  in  no  sense  lost  himself  in 
his  work.  Two  or  three  times,  Mrs.  Taine  saw  him 
glance  quickly  over  his  shoulder,  as  though  expecting 
some  one.  Once,  for  quite  a  moment,  he  deliberately 
turned  from  his  easel  to  stand  at  the  window,  looking 
up  at  the  distant  mountain  peaks.  Several  times,  he 
seemed  to  be  listening. 

"May  I  talk  ?"  she  said  at  last. 

"Why,  certainly,"  he  returned.  "I  want  you  to 
feel  perfectly  at  ease.  You  must  be  altogether  at 

103 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

home  here.  Just  let  yourself  go — say  what  you  like, 
with  no  conventional  restraints  whatever — consider 
me  a  mechanical  something  that  is  no  more  than  an 
article  of  furniture — be  as  thoroughly  yourself  as  if 
alone  in  your  own  room." 

"How  funny,"  she  said  musingly. 

"Not  at  all" — he  returned — "just  a  matter  of 
business." 

"But  it  would  be  funny  if  I  were  to  take  you  at 
your  word,"  she  replied ;  suddenly  breaking  the  pose 
and  meeting  his  gaze  squarely.  "Is  it — is  it  quite 
necessary  for  the  mechanical  something  to  look  at 
me  like  that  ?" 

"I  said  that  you  were  to  consider  me  as  an  article 
of  furniture.  I  didn't  say  that  I  felt  like  a  table  or 
chair." 

"Oh!" 

"Don't  look  down;  keep  the  pose,  please,"  came 
somewhat  sharply  from  the  man  at  the  easel,  as 
though  he  were  mentally  taking  himself  in  hand. 

After  that,  she  watched  him  with  increasing  in- 
terest; and,  when  he  turned  his  head  in  that  listen- 
ing attitude,  a  curious,  resentful  light  came  into  her 
eyes. 

Presently,  she  asked  abruptly,  "What  is  it  that  you 
hear?" 

"I  thought  I  heard  music,"  he  answered,  coloring 
slightly  and  turning  to  his  work  with  suddenly 
absorbing  interest. 

"The  violin  that  so  enchanted  you  when  I  came  to 
break  the  spell  ?"  she  persisted  playfully — though  the 
light  in  her  eyes  was  not  a  playful  light. 

104 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

"Yes,"  he  answered  shortly;  stepping  back  and 
shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand  for  a  careful  look  at 
his  canvas. 

"And  don't  you  know  who  it  is  ?" 

"You  said  it  was  an  old  professor  somebody." 

"That  was  my  first  guess,"  she  retorted.  "Was  I 
right  ?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"But  it  comes  from  that  little  box  of  a  house,  next 
door,  doesn't  it  ?" 

"Evidently,"  the  artist  answered.  Then,  laying 
aside  his  palette  and  brushes  he  said  abruptly,  "That 
is  all  for  to-day ;  thank  you." 

"Oh,  so  soon!"  she  exclaimed;  and  the  regret  in 
her  voice  was  very  pleasing  to  the  man  who  was 
decidedly  not  a  mechanical  something. 

She  started  eagerly  forward  toward  the  easel.  But 
the  artist,  with  a  quick  motion,  drew  a  curtain  across 
the  canvas,  to  hide  his  work;  while  he  checked  her 
with — "Not  yet,  please.  I  don't  want  you  to  see  it 
until  I  say  you  may." 

"How  mean  of  you,"  she  protested;  charmingly 
submissive.  Then,  eagerly — "And  do  you  want  me 
to-morrow  ?  You  do,  don't  you  ?" 

"Yes,  please — at  the  same  hour." 

When  the  Quaker  Maiden's  dress  was  safely  hid- 
den under  her  wrap,  Mrs.  Taine  stood,  for  a  moment, 
looking  thoughtfully  about  the  studio;  while  the 
artist  waited  at  the  door,  ready  to  escort  her  to  the 
automobile.  "I  am  going  to  love  this  room,"  she  said 
slowly;  and,  for  the  first  time,  her  voice  was  genu- 

105 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

inely  sincere,  with  a  hint  of  wistfulness  in  its  tone 
that  made  him  regard  her  wonderingly. 

She  went  to  him  impulsively.  "Will  you,  when 
you  are  famous — when  you  are  a  great  artist  and  all 
the  great  and  famous  people  go  to  you  to  have  their 
portraits  painted — will  you  remember  poor  me,  I 
wonder  ?" 

"Am  I  really  going  to  be  famous?"  he  returned 
doubtfully.  "Are  you  so  sure  that  this  picture  will 
mean  success  ?" 

"Of  course  I  am  sure — I  know.  You  want  to  suc- 
ceed, don't  you  ?" 

Aaron  King  returned  her  look,  for  a  moment,  with- 
out answering.  Then,  with  a  quick,  fierce  determina- 
tion that  betrayed  a  depth  of  feeling  she  had  never 
before  seen  in  him,  he  exclaimed,  "Do  I  want  to  suc- 
ceed !  I — I  must  succeed.  I  tell  you  I  must." 

And  the  woman  answered  very  softly,  with  her 
hand  upon  his  arm,  "And  you  shall — you  shall." 


Conrad  Lagrange  and  Czar  found  the  artist  on  the 
front  porch,  pulling  moodily  at  his  pipe. 

"Is  it  all  over  for  to-day?"  asked  the  novelist  as 
he  stood  looking  down  upon  the  young  man  with  that 
peculiarly  piercing,  baffling  gaze. 

"All  over,"  replied  the  artist,  answering  the  greet- 
ing thrust  of  Czar's  muzzle  against  his  knee,  with 
caressing  hand.  "Where  did  you  fly  to  ?" 

The  other  dropped  into  a  chair.  "I  would  fly 
anywhere  to  escape  being  entertained  by  that  'Rag- 


106 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

time'  piece  of  human  nonentity — Louise  Taina  I 
saw  them  coming,  just  in  time."  He  was  filling  his. 
pipe  as  he  spoke.  "And  how  did  the  work  go  ?" 

"All  right,"  replied  the  painter,  indifferently. 

The  older  man  shot  a  curious  sidewise  glance  at 
his  moody  companion;  then,  striking  a  match,  he 
gave  careful  attention  to  his  pipe.  Watching  the 
cloud  of  blue  smoke,  he  said  quizzingly,  "I  suppose 
'Her  Majesty'  was  royally  apparelled  for  the  occasion 
— properly  arrayed  in  purple  and  fine  linen;  aa 
befits  the  dignity  of  her  state?" 

The  artist  turned  at  the  mocking,  suggestive  tone 
and  answered  savagely,  "I  suppose  you  have  got  to 
know,  damn  you !  I'm  painting  her  as  a  Quaker 
Maiden." 

Conrad  Lagrange's  reply  was  as  surprising  in  its 
way  as  was  the  outburst  of  the  artist.  Instead  of 
the  tirade  of  biting  sarcasm  and  stinging  abuse  that 
the  painter  expected,  the  older  man  only  gazed  at 
him  from  under  his  scowling  brows  and,  shaking  his 
head,  sadly,  said  with  sincere  regret  and  understand- 
ing, "You  poor  fellow !  It  must  be  hell."  Then,  as 
his  keen  mind  grasped  the  full  significance  of  the 
artist's  words,  he  murmured  meditatively,  "The 
personification  of  the  age  masquerading  in  Quaker 
gray — Shades  of  the  giants  who  used  to  be!  What 
an  opportunity — if  you  only  had  the  nerve  to  do  it." 

The  artist  flung  out  his  hand  in  protest  as  he  rose 
from  his  chair  to  pace  up  and  down  the  porch. 
"Don't,  Lagrange,  don't !  I  can't  stand  it,  just  now." 

"All  right,"  said  the  other,  heartily,  "I  won't." 


107 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOELD 

Rising,  he  put  his  hand  on  his  friend's  shoulder. 
"Come,  let's  go  for  a  look  at  the  roses,  before  Yee 
Kee  calls  us  to  dinner." 

In  the  garden,  the  artist's  eye  caught  sight  of  some- 
thing white  lying  in  the  well-kept  path.  With  an 
exclamation,  he  went  quickly  to  pick  it  up.  It  was 
a  dainty  square  of  lace — a  handkerchief — with  an 
exquisitely  embroidered  "S"  in  the  corner. 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  in  silence ;  with 
smiling,  questioning  eyes. 


108 


CHAPTER  VIII 
THE  PORTRAIT  THAT  WAS  NOT  A  PORTRAIT 

AEON  KING  was  putting  the  last  touches 
to  his  portrait  of  the  woman  who — Con- 
rad Lagrange  said — was  the  personifica- 
tion of  the  age. 

From  that  evening  when  the  young  man 
told  his  friend  the  story  of  his  mother's 
sacrifice,  their  friendship  had  become  like  that 
friendship  which  passeth  the  love  of  women.  While 
the  novelist,  true  to  his  promise,  did  not  cease  to  flay 
his  younger  companion — for  the  good  of  the  artist's 
soul — those  moments  when  his  gentler  moods  ruled 
his  speech  were,  perhaps,  more  frequent;  and  the 
artist  was  more  and  more  learning  to  appreciate  the 
rare  imagination,  the  delicacy  of  feeling,  the  intel- 
lectual brilliancy,  and  the  keenness  of  mental  vision 
that  distinguished  the  man  whose  life  was  so  embit- 
tered by  the  use  he  had  made  of  his  own  rich  gifts. 

The  novelist  steadily  refused  to  look  at  the  picture 
while  the  work  was  in  progress.  He  said,  bluntly, 
that  he  preferred  to  run  no  risk  of  interfering  with 
the  young  man's  chance  for  fame ;  and  that  it  would 
be  quite  enough  for  him  to  look  upon  his  friend's 
shame  when  it  was  accomplished ;  without  witnessing 
the  process  in  its  various  stages.  The  artist  laughed 
to  hide  the  embarrassing  fact  that  he  was  rather 

109 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

pleased  to  be  left  to  himself  with  this  particular 
picture. 

Conrad  Lagrange  did  not,  however,  refuse  to  ac- 
company his  friend,  occasionally,  to  the  house  on 
Fairlands  Heights;  where  the  painter  continued  to 
spend  much  of  his  tima  When  Mrs.  Taine  made 
mocking  references  to  the  novelist's  promise  not  to 
leave  the  artist  unprotected  to  her  tender  mercies,  he 
always  answered  with  some — as  she  said — twisty  say- 
ing ;  to  the  effect  that  the  present  situation  in  no  way 
lessened  his  determination  to  save  the  young  man 
from  the  influences  that  would  accomplish  the  ruin 
of  his  genius.  "If" — he  always  added — "if  he  is 
worth  saving;  which  remains  to  be  seen."  Always, 
at  the  Taine  home,  they  met  James  Rutlidge.  Fre- 
quently, the  celebrated  critic  dropped  in  at  the  cottage 
in  the  orange  grove. 

Under  the  skillful  management  of  Rutlidge, — at 
the  request  of  Mrs.  Taine, — the  newspapers  were 
already  busy  with  the  name  and  work  of  Aaron  King. 
True,  the  critic  had  never  seen  the  artist's  work ;  but, 
never-the-less,  the  papers  and  magazines  throughout 
the  country  often  mentioned  the  high  order  of  the 
painter's  genius.  There  were  little  stories  of  his 
study  and  success  abroad;  tactful  references  to  his 
aristocratic  family;  entertaining  accounts  of  his 
romantic  life  with  the  famous  novelist  in  the  orange 
groves  of  Fairlands,  and  of  how,  in  his  California 
studio  among  the  roses,  the  distinguished  painter  was 
at  work  upon  a  portrait  of  the  well-known  social 
leader,  Mrs.  Taine — this  being  the  first  portrait  ever 
painted  of  that  famous  beauty.  That  the  picture 

110 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOULD 

would  create  a  sensation  at  the  exhibition,  was  the 
unanimous  verdict  of  all  who  had  been  permitted 
to  see  the  marvelous  creation  by  this  rare  genius 
whose  work  was  so  little  known  in  this  country. 
Said  Conrad  Lagrange — "It  is  all  so  easy." 
Once  or  twice,  the  artist  or  his  friend  had  seen 
the  woman  of  the  disfigured  face;  and  the  novelist 
still  tried  in  vain  to  fix  her  in  his  memory.  Every 
day,  they  heard,  in  the  depths  of  the  neighboring 
orange  grove,  the  music  of  that  unseen  violin.  They 
spoke,  often,  in  playful  mood,  of  the  spirit  that 
haunted  the  place;  but  they  made  no  effort  to  solve 
the  mystery  of  the  carefully  tended  rose  garden. 
They  knew  that  whoever  cared  for  the  roses  worked 
there  only  in  the  early  morning  hours;  and  they 
carefully  avoided  going  into  the  yard  back  of  the 
house  until  after  breakfast.  They  felt  that  an  in- 
vestigation might  rob  them  of  the  peculiar  humor 
of  their  fancy — a  fancy  that  was  to  them,  both,  such 
a  pleasure;  and  gave  to  their  home  amid  the  orange- 
trees  and  roses  such  an  added  charm. 

But  the  other  member  of  the  trio  of  friends  was 
not  so  reticent.  Czar  had  formed  an — to  his  most 
proper  dogship — unusual  habit.  Frequently,  when 
the  three  were  sitting  on  the  porch  in  the  evening,  he 
would  rise  suddenly  from  his  place  beside  his  mas- 
ter's chair,  and  walking  sedately  to  the  side  of  the 
porch  facing  that  neighboring  gable  and  chimney, 
would  stand  listening  attentively;  then,  without  so 
much  as  a  "by-your-leave,"  he  would  leap  to  the 
ground,  and  vanish  somewhere  around  the  corner  of 
the  house.  Later,  he  would  come  sedately  back; 

111 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOKLD 

greeting  each,  in  turn,  with  that  insistent  thrust  of 
his  soft  muzzle  against  a  knee ;  and  assuring  them,  in 
the  wordless  speech  of  his  expressive,  brown  eyes, 
that  his  mission  had  been  a  most  proper  one,  and  that 
they  might  trust  him  to  make  no  foolish  mistakes 
that  would  mar  the  peace  and  harmony  of  their 
little  household.  The  men  never  failed  to  agree  with 
him  that  it  was  all  right.  In  fact,  so  fully  did  they 
trust  him  that  they  never  even  stepped  to  the  corner 
of  the  porch  to  see  where  he  went;  nor  would  they 
leave  their  chairs  until  he  had  returned. 

Upon  those  days  when  Mrs.  Taine  came  to  the 
studio, — being  always  careful  that  Louise  accom- 
panied her  as  far  as  the  house, — Conrad  Lagrange 
vanished.  The  man  swore  by  all  the  strange  and 
wonderful  gods  he  knew — and  they  were  many — that 
he  feared  to  spend  an  hour  with  that  effervescing 
young  female  devotee  of  the  Arts — lest  the  mountains 
in  their  wrath  should  fall  upon  him. 

But  that  day,  when  Mrs.  Taine  came  for  the  last 
sitting,  the  novelist — engaged  in  interesting  talk  with 
the  artist — forgot. 

"You  are  caught,"  cried  the  painter,  gleefully,  as 
the  big  automobile  stopped  at  the  gate. 

"I'll  be  damned  if  I  am,"  retorted  the  novelist, 
with  no  profane  intent  but  with  meaning  quite 
literal ;  and,  seizing  a  book,  he  bolted  through  the 
kitchen — nearly  upsetting  the  startled  Yee  Kee. 

"What's  matte',5'  inquired  the  Chinaman,  putting 
his  head  in  at  the  living-room  door ;  his  almond  eyes 
as  wide  as  they  could  go,  with  an  expression  of 
celestial  consternation  that  convulsed  the  artist. 

112 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOULD 

Catching  sight  of  the  automobile,  his  oriental  fea- 
tures wrinkled  into  a  yellow  grin  of  understanding; 
"Oh!  see  um  come!  Ha!  I  know.  He  all  time  go, 
she  come.  He  say  no  like  lagtime  gal.  Dog  Cza', 
him  all  time  gone,  too;  him  no  like  lagtime — all 
same  Miste'  Laglange.  Ha!  I  go,  too,"  and  he,  in 
turn,  vanished. 

"You  are  early,  to-day,"  said  Aaron  King,  as  he 
escorted  Mrs.  Taine  to  the  studio. 

Just  inside  the  door,  she  turned  impulsively  to 
face  him — standing  close,  her  beautifully  groomed 
and  voluptuous  body  instinct  with  the  lure  of  her  sex, 
her  too  perfect  features  slightly  flushed,  and  her  eyes 
submissively  downcast.  "And  have  you  forgotten 
that  this  is  the  last  time  I  can  come  ?"  she  asked  in 
a  low  tone. 

"Surely  not" — he  returned  calmly — "you  are  com- 
ing to-morrow,  with  the  others,  aren't  you?"  Her 
husband  with  James  Rutlidge  and  Louise  Taine  were 
invited  for  the  next  day,  to  view  the  portrait. 

"Oh,  but  that  will  be  so  different!"  She  loosed 
the  wrap  she  wore,  and  threw  it  aside  with  an  inde- 
scribable familiar  gesture.  "You  don't  realize  what 
these  hours  have  meant  to  me — how  could  you  ?  You 
do  not  live  in  my  world.  Your  world  is — is  so  dif- 
ferent. You  do  not  know — you  do  not  know."  With 
a  sudden  burst  of  passion,  she  added,  "The  world 
that  I  live  in  is  hell ;  and  this — this — oh,  it  has  been 
heavenly !" 

Her  words,  her  voice,  the  poise  of  her  figure,  the 
gesture  with  outstretched  arms — it  was  all  so  nearly 
an  invitation,  so  nearly  a  surrender  of  herself  to  him, 

113 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

that  the  man  started  forward  impulsively.  For  the 
moment  he  forgot  his  work — he  forgot  everything — 
he  was  conscious  only  of  the  woman  who  stood  before 
him.  But  even  as  the  light  of  triumph  blazed  up  in 
the  woman's  eyes,  the  man  halted, — drew  back;  and 
his  face  was  turned  from  her  as  he  listened  to  the 
sweetly  appealing  message  of  the  gentle  spirit  that 
made  itself  felt  in  the  music  of  that  hidden  violin. 
It  was  as  though,  in  truth,  the  mountains,  themselves, 
— from  their  calm  heights  so  remote  from  the  little 
world  wherein  men  live  their  baser  tragedies, — 
watched  over  him.  "Don't  you  think  we  had  better 
proceed  with  our  work  ?"  he  said  calmly. 

The  light  in  the  woman's  eyes  changed  to  anger 
which  she  turned  away  to  hide.  Without  replying, 
she  went  to  her  place  and  assumed  the  pose ;  and,  as 
she  had  watched  him  day  after  day  when  his  eyes 
were  upon  the  canvas,  she  watched  him  now.  Since 
that  first  day,  when  she  had  questioned  him  about 
the  unseen  musician,  they  had  not  mentioned  the 
subject,  although — as  was  inevitable  under  the  cir- 
cumstances— their  intimacy  had  grown.  But  not 
once  had  he  turned  from  his  work  in  that  listening 
attitude,  or  looked  from  the  window  as  though  half- 
expecting  some  one,  without  her  noting  it  And, 
always,  her  eyes  had  flashed  with  resentment, 
which  she  had  promptly  concealed  when  the  painter, 
again  turning  to  his  easel,  had  looked  from  his  can- 
vas to  her  face. 

Scarcely  was  the  artist  well  started  in  his  work, 
that  afternoon,  when  the  music  ceased.  Presently, 
Mrs.  Taine  broke  her  watchful  silence,  with  the  quite 

114 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

casual  remark;  "Your  musical  neighbor  is  still  un- 
known to  you,  I  suppose  ?" 

"Yes," — lie  answered  smiling,  as  though  more  to 
himself  than  at  her, — "we  have  never  tried  to  make 
her  acquaintance." 

The  woman  caught  him  up  quickly ;  "To  make  her 
acquaintance  ?  Why  do  you  say,  'her/'  if  you  do  not 
know  who  it  is?" 

The  artist  was  confused.  "Did  I  say,  herl"  he 
questioned,  his  face  flushed  with  embarrassment.  "It 
was  a  slip  of  the  tongue.  Neither  Conrad  Lagrange 
nor  I  know  anything  about  our  neighbor." 

She  laughed  ironically.  "And  you  could  know  so 
easily." 

"I  suppose  so;  but  we  have  never  cared  to.  We 
prefer  to  accept  the  music  as  it  comes  to  us — imper- 
sonally— for  what  it  is — not  for  whoever  makes  it." 
He  spoke  coldly,  as  though  the  subject  was  distasteful 
to  him,  under  the  circumstances  of  the  moment. 

But  the  woman  persisted.  "Well,  /  know  who  it 
is.  Shall  I  tell  you?" 

"No.  I  do  not  care  to  know.  I  am  not  interested 
in  the  musician." 

"Oh,  but  you  might  be,  you  know,"  she  retorted. 

"Please  take  the  pose,"  returned  Aaron  King  pro- 
fessionally. Mrs.  Taine,  wisely,  for  the  time,  dropped 
the  subject ;  contenting  herself  with  a  meaning  laugh. 

The  artist  silently  gave  all  his  attention  to  the 
nearly  finished  portrait.  He  was  not  painting,  now, 
with  full  brush  and  swift  sure  strokes, — as  had  been 
his  way  when  building  up  his  picture, — but  worked 
with  occasional  deft  touches  here  and  there ;  drawing 

115 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

back  from  the  canvas  often,  to  study  it  intently,  his 
eyes  glancing  swiftly  from  the  picture  to  the  sitter's 
face  and  back  again  to  the  portrait;  then  stepping 
forward  quickly,  ready  brush  in  hand;  to  withdraw 
an  instant  later  for  another  long  and  searching  study. 
Presently,  with  an  air  of  relief,  he  laid  aside  his 
palette  and  brushes ;  and  turning  to  Mrs.  Taine,  with 
a  smile,  held  out  his  hand.  "Come,"  he  said,  "tell 
me  if  I  have  done  well  or  ill." 

"It  is  finished  ?"  she  cried.    "I  may  see  it  ?" 
"It  is  all  that  I  can  do" — he  answered — "come." 
He  led  her  to  the  easel,  where  they  stood  side  by  side 
before  his  work. 

The  picture,  still  fresh  from  the  painter's  brush, 
was  a  portrait  of  Mrs.  Taine — yet  not  a  portrait. 
Exquisite  in  coloring  and  in  its  harmony  of  tone  and 
line,  it  betrayed  in  every  careful  detail — in  every 
mark  of  the  brush — the  thoughtful,  painstaking  care 
— the  thorough  knowledge  and  highly  trained  skill  of 
an  artist  who  was,  at  least,  master  of  his  own  technic. 
But — if  one  might  say  so — the  painting  was  more 
a  picture  than  a  portrait.  The  face  upon  the  canvas 
was  the  face  of  Mrs.  Taine,  indeed,  in  that  the  fea- 
tures were  her  features;  but  it  was  also  the  face  of 
a  sweetly  modest  Quaker  Maid.  The  too  perfect,  too 
well  cared  for  face  of  the  beautiful  woman  of  the 
world  was,  on  the  canvas,  given  the  charm  of  a  nat- 
ural, unconscious  loveliness.  The  eyes  that  had 
watched  the  artist  with  such  certain  knowledge  of 
life  and  with  the  boldness  born  of  that  knowledge 
were,  in  the  picture,  beautiful  with  the  charm  of 


116 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

innocent  maidenhood.  The  very  coloring  and  the 
arrangement  of  the  hair  were  changed  subtly  to 
express,  not  the  skill  of  high-priced  beauty-doctors 
and  of  fashionable  hair-dressers,  but  the  instinctive 
care  of  womanliness.  The  costume  that,  when  worn 
by  the  woman,  expressed  so  fully  her  true  character ; 
in  the  picture,  became  the  emblem  of  a  pure  and 
deeply  religious  spirit. 

Mrs.  Taine  turned  impulsively  to  the  artist,  and, 
placing  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  exclaimed  in  delight, 
"Oh,  is  it  true  ?  Am  I  really  so  beautiful  ?" 

The  artist  laughed.    "You  like  it  ?" 

"Like  it?  How  could  I  help  liking  it?  It  is 
lovely." 

"I  am  glad,"  he  returned.  "I  hoped  it  would 
please  you." 

"And  you" — she  asked,  with  eager  eyes — "are  you 
satisfied  with  it  ?  Does  it  seem  good  to  you  ?" 

"Oh,  as  for  that,"  he  answered,  "I  suppose  one  is 
never  satisfied.  I  know  the  work  is  good — in  a  way. 
But  it  is  very  far  from  what  it  should  be,  I  fear. 
I  feel  that,  after  all,  I  have  not  made  the  most  of  my 
opportunity."  He  spoke  with  a  shade  of  sadness. 

Again,  she  put  out  her  hand  impulsively  to  touch 
his  arm,  as  she  answered  eagerly,  "Ah,  but  no  one 
else  will  say  that.  No  one  else  will  dare.  It  will  be 
the  sensation  of  the  year — I  tell  you.  Just  you  wait 
until  Jim  Eutlidge  sees  it.  Wait  until  it  is  hung 
for  exhibition,  and  he  tells  the  world  about  it.  Every- 
body worth  while  will  be  coming  to  you  then.  And 
I — I  will  remember  these  hours  with  you,  and  be 


117 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

glad  that  I  could  help — even  so  little.  Will  you 
remember  them,  too,  I  wonder.  Are  you  glad  the 
picture  is  finished  ?" 

"And  are  you  not  glad  ?"  he  returned  meaningly. 

They  had  both  forgotten  the  painting  before  them. 
They  did  not  see  it.  They  each  saw  only  the  other. 

"No,  I  am  not  glad,"  she  said  in  a  low  tone. 
"People  would  very  soon  be  talking  if  I  should  come 
here,  alone — now  that  the  picture  is  finished." 

"I  suppose  in  any  case  you  will  be  leaving  Fair- 
lands,  soon,  for  the  summer,"  he  returned  slowly. 

"O  listen," — she  cried  with  quick  eagerness — "we 
are  going  to  Lake  Silence.  What's  to  hinder  your 
coming  too  ?  Everybody  goes  there,  you  know. 
Won't  you  come  ?" 

"But  would  it  be  altogether  safe  ?"  He  reflected 
doubtfully. 

"Why,  of  course, — Mr.  Taine,  Louise,  and  Jim, — 
we  are  all  going  together — don't  you  see?  I  don't 
believe  you  want  to  go,"  she  pouted.  "I  believe  you 
want  to  forget." 

Her  alluring  manner,  the  invitation  conveyed  in 
her  words  and  voice,  the  touch  of  her  hand  on  his 
arm,  and  the  nearness  of  her  person,  fairly  swept  the 
man  off  his  feet.  With  quick  passion,  he  caught  her 
hand,  and  his  words  came  with  reckless  heat.  "You 
know  that  I  will  not  forget  you.  You  know  that  I 
could  not,  if  I  would.  Do  you  think  that  I  have 
been  so  engrossed  with  my  brushes  and  canvas  that 
I  have  been  unconscious  of  you  ?  What  is  that 
painted  thing  beside  your  own  beautiful  self?  Do 
you  think  that  because  I  must  turn  myself  into  a 

118 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

machine  to  make  a  photograph  of  your  beauty,  I  am 
insensible  to  its  charm  ?  I  am  not  a  machine.  I  am 
a  man ;  as  you  are  a  woman ;  and  I — " 

She  checked  him  suddenly — stepping  aside  with  a 
quick  movement,  and  the  words,  "Hush,  some  one  is 
coming." 

The  artist,  too,  heard  voices,  just  without  the 
door. 

Mrs.  Taine  moved  swiftly  across  the  room  toward 
her  wrap.  Aaron  King,  going  to  his  easel,  drew  the 
velvet  curtain  to  hide  the  picture. 


119 


CHAPTER  IX 
CONRAD  LAGRANGE'S  ADVENTURE 

ERTAINLY,  when  Conrad  Lagrange  fled 
so  precipitately  from  Louise  Taine,  that 
afternoon,  he  had  no  thought  that  the 
trivial  incident  was  to  mark  the  beginning 
of  a  new  era  in  his  life;  or  that  it  would 
work  out  in  the  life  of  his  dearest  friend 
such  far  reaching  results.  His  only  purpose  was  to 
escape  an  hour  of  the  frothy  vaporings  of  the  poor, 
young  creature  who  believed  herself  so  interested  in 
art  and  letters,  and  who  succeeded  so  admirably  in 
expressing  the  spirit  of  her  environment  and  training. 
With  his  pipe  and  book,  the  novelist  hid  himself 
in  the  rose  garden;  finding  a  seat  on  the  ground,  in 
an  angle  of  the  studio  wall  and  the  Ragged  Robin 
hedge,  where  any  one  entering  the  enclosure  would 
be  least  likely  to  observe  him.  Czar,  heartily  approv- 
ing of  his  master's  action,  stretched  himself  comfort- 
ably under  the  nearest  rose-bush,  and  waited  further 
developments. 

Presently,  the  novelist  heard  his  friend,  with  Mrs. 
Taine,  come  from  the  house  and  enter  the  studio. 
For  a  moment,  he  entertained  the  uncomfortable  fear 
that  the  artist,  in  a  spirit  of  sheer  boyish  fun  that  so 
often  moved  him,  would  bring  Mrs.  Taine  to  the 
garden.  But  the  moment  passed,  and  the  novelist, — 

120 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

mentally  blessing  the  young  man  for  his  forbearance, 
— with  a  chuckle  of  satisfaction,  lighted  his  pipe  and 
opened  his  book.  Scarcely  had  he  found  his  place 
in  the  pages,  however,  when  he  was  again  interrupted 
— this  time,  by  the  welcome  tones  of  their  neighbor's 
violin.  Putting  his  book  aside,  the  man  reclining  in 
the  shelter  of  the  roses,  with  half-closed  eyes,  yielded 
himself  to  the  fancy  of  the  spirit  that  called  from 
the  depths  of  the  fragrant  orange  grove. 

The  mass  of  roses  in  the  hedge  and  on  the  wall  of 
the  studio  above  his  head  dropped  their  lovely  petals 
down  upon  him.  The  warm,  slanting  rays  of  the 
afternoon  sun,  softened  by  the  screen  of  shining 
leaves  and  branches,  played  over  the  bewildering  riot 
of  color.  Here  and  there,  golden-bodied  bees  and 
velvet-winged  butterflies  flitted  about  their  fairy-like 
duties.  Far  above,  in  the  deep  blue,  a  hawk  floated 
on  motionless  wings  and  a  lonely  crow  laid  his  course 
toward  the  distant  mountain  peaks  that  gleamed, 
silvery  white,  above  the  blue  and  purple  of  the  lower 
ridges  and  the  tawny  yellow  of  their  foothills.  The 
air  was  saturated  with  the  fragrance  of  the  rose  and 
orange  blossoms,  of  eucalyptus  and  pepper  trees,  and 
with  the  thousand  other  perfumes  of  a  California 
spring. 

The  music  ceased.  The  man  waited — hoping  that 
it  would  begin  again.  But  it  did  not;  and  he  was 
about  to  take  up  his  book,  once  more,  when  Czar 
arose,  stretched  himself,  stood  for  a  moment  in  a 
picturesque,  listening  attitude,  then  trotted  off  among 
the  roses;  leaving  the  novelist  with  an  odd  feeling 
of  uneasy  expectancy — half  resolved  to  stay,  half 

121 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOBLD 

determined  to  go.  The  thought  of  Louise  in  the 
house  decided  him,  and  he  kept  his  place,  hidden  as 
he  was,  in  the  corner — a  whimsical  smile  hovering 
over  his  world-lined  features  as  though,  after  all,  he 
felt  himself  entering  upon  some  enjoyable  adventure. 

Presently,  he  heard  indistinctly,  somewhere  in  the 
other  end  of  the  garden,  a  low  murmuring  voice.  As 
it  came  nearer,  the  man's  smile  grew  more  pro- 
nounced. It  was  a  wonderfully  attractive  voice,  clear 
and  full  in  its  pure-toned  sweetness.  The  unseen 
speaker  was  talking  to  the  novelist's  dog.  The  smile 
on  the  man's  face  was  still  more  pronounced,  as  he 
whispered  to  himself,  "The  rascal!  So  this  is  what 
he  has  been  up  to!"  Rising  quietly  to  his  knees, 
he  peered  through  the  flower-laden  bushes. 

A  young  woman  of  rare  and  exquisite  beauty  was 
moving  abouv  the  garden — bending  over  the  roses, 
and  talking  in  low  tones  to  Czar,  who — to  his  hidden 
master — appeared  to  appreciate  fully  the  favor  of  his 
gentle  companion's  intimacy.  The  novelist — old  in 
the  study  of  character  and  trained  by  his  long  years 
of  observation  and  experience  in  the  world  of  arti- 
ficiality— was  fascinated  by  the  loveliness  of  the 
scene. 

Dressed  simply,  in  some  soft  clinging  material  of 
white,  with  a  modestly  low-cut  square  at  the  throat, 
and  sleeves  that  ended  in  filmy  lace  just  below  the 
elbow — her  lithe,  softly  rounded  form,  as  she  moved 
here  and  there,  had  all  the  charm  of  girlish  grace 
with  the  fuller  beauty  of  ripening  womanhood.  As 
she  bent  over  the  roses,  or  stooped  to  caress  the  dog, 
in  gentle  comradeship,  her  step,  her  poise,  her  every 

122 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

motion,  was  instinct  with  that  strength  and  health 
that  is  seldom  seen  among  those  who  wear  the 
shackles  of  a  too  conventionalized  society.  Her  face, 
— warmly  tinted  by  the  golden  out-of-doors,  firm 
fleshed  and  clear, — in  its  unconscious  naturalness  and 
in  its  winsome  purity  was  like  the  flowers  she  stooped 
to  kiss. 

As  he  watched,  the  man  noticed — with  a  smile  of 
understanding — that  she  kept  rather  to  the  side  of 
the  garden  toward  the  house;  where  the  artist,  at  his 
easel  by  the  big,  north  light,  could  not  see  her 
through  the  small  window  in  the  end  of  the  room; 
and  where,  hidden  by  the  tall  hedge,  she  would  not 
be  noticed  from  Yee  Kee's  kitchen.  Often,  too,  she 
paused  to  listen,  as  if  for  any  chance  approaching 
step — appearing,  to  the  fancy  of  the  man,  as  some 
creature  from  another  world — poised  lightly,  ready 
to  vanish  if  any  rude  observer  came  too  near.  Soon, 
— after  a  cautious,  hesitating,  listening  look  about, — 
she  slipped,  swift  footed  as  a  fawn,  across  the  garden, 
and — followed  by  the  dog — disappeared  into  the  lat- 
ticed, rose-covered  arbor  against  the  southern  wall. 

With  a  chuckle  to  himself,  Conrad  Lagrange  crept 
quietly  along  the  hedge  to  the  door  of  her  retreat. 

When  she  saw  him  there,  she  gave  a  little  cry  and 
started  as  though  to  escape.  But  the  novelist,  smil- 
ing, barred  her  way;  while  Czar,  joyfully  greeting 
his  master,  turned  from  the  man  to  the  girl  and  back 
to  the  man  again,  as  if,  by  dividing  his  attention 
equally  between  the  two,  he  was  bent  upon  assuring 
each  that  the  other  was  a  friend  of  the  right  sort. 
There  was  no  mistaking  the  facts  that  the  dog  was 

123 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

introducing  them,  and  that  he  was  as  proud  of  his 
new  acquaintance  as  he  was  pleased  to  present  his 
older  and  more  intimate  companion. 

A  sunny  smile  broke  over  the  girl's  winsome  face, 
as  she  caught  the  meaning  of  Czar's  behavior.  "O," 
she  said,  "are  you  his  master  ?"  Her  manner  was  as 
natural  and  unrestrained  as  a  child's — her  voice, 
musically  sweet  and  low,  as  one  unaccustomed  to  the 
speech  of  noisy,  crowded  cities  or  shrill  chattering 
crowds. 

"I  am  his  most  faithful  and  humble  subject,"  re- 
turned the  man,  whimsically. 

She  was  studying  his  face  openly,  while  her  own 
countenance — unschooled  to  hide  emotions,  untrained 
to  deceive — frankly  betrayed  each  passing  thought 
and  mood.  The  daintily  turned  chin,  sensitive  lips, 
delicate  nostrils,  and  large,  blue  eyes, — with  that 
wide,  unafraid  look  of  a  child  that  has  never  been 
taught  to  fear, — revealed  a  spirit  fine  and  rare ;  while 
the  low,  broad  forehead,  shaded  by  a  wealth  of  soft 
brown  hair, — that,  arranged  deftly  in  some  simple 
fashion,  seemed  to  invite  the  caress  of  every  wayward 
breath  of  air, — gave  the  added  charm  of  strength  and 
purpose.  The  man,  seeing  these  things  and  knowing 
— as  few  men  ever  know — their  value,  waited  her 
verdict. 

It  came  with  a  smile  and  a  pretty  fancy,  as  though 
she  caught  the  mood  of  the  novelist's  reply.  "He 
has  told  me  so  much  about  you — how  kind  you  are 
to  him,  and  how  he  loves  you.  I  hope  you  don't  mind 
that  he  and  I  have  learned  to  be  good  friends.  Won't 
you  tell  me  his  name?  I  have  tried  everything,  but 

124 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

nothing  seems  to  fit.  To  call  such  a  royal  fellow, 
'doggie',  doesn't  do  at  all,  does  it  ?" 

Conrad  Lagrange  laughed — and  it  was  the  laugh 
of  a  Conrad  Lagrange  unknown  to  the  world.  "No," 
he  said  with  mock  seriousness,  "  'doggie,'  doesn't  do 
at  all.  He's  not  that  kind  of  a  dog.  His  name  is  Czar. 
That  is" — he  added,  giving  full  rein  to  his  droll 
humor — "I  gave  it  to  him  for  a  name.  He  has  made 
it  his  title.  He  did  that,  you  know,  so  I  would 
always  remember  that  he  is  my  superior." 

She  laughed — low,  full-throated  and  clear — as  a 
girl  who  has  not  sadly  learned  that  she  is  a  woman, 
laughs.  Then  she  fell  to  caressing  the  dog  and  call- 
ing him  by  name;  while  Czar — in  his  efforts  to 
express  his  delight  and  satisfaction — was  as  nearly 
undignified  as  it  was  possible  for  him  to  be. 

As  he  watched  them,  the  rugged,  world-worn  fea- 
tures of  the  famous  novelist  were  lighted  with  an 
expression  that  transformed  them. 

"And  I  suppose,"  she  said, — still  responding  to 
the  novelist's  playful  mood, — "that  Czar  told  you  I 
was  trespassing  in  your  garden.  Of  course  it  was 
his  duty  to  tell.  I  hope  he  told  you,  also,  that  I  do 
not  steal  your  roses." 

The  man  shook  his  head,  and  his  sharp,  green-gray 
eyes  were  twinkling  merrily,  now — as  a  boy  in  the 
spirit  of  some  amusing  venture.  "Oh,  no !  Czar  said 
nothing  at  all  about  trespassers.  He  did  tell  me, 
though,  about  a  wonderful  creature  that  comes  every 
day  to  visit  the  garden.  A  nymph,  he  thought  it  was 
— a  beautiful  Oread  from  away  up  there  among  the 
silver  peaks  and  purple  canyons — or,  perhaps,  a 

125 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

lovely  Dryad  from  among  the  oaks  and  pines.  I  felt 
quite  sure,  though,  that  the  nymph  must  be  an  Oread ; 
because  he  said  that  she  comes  to  gather  colors  from 
the  roses,  and  that  every  morning  and  every  evening 
she  uses  these  colors  to  tint  the  highest  peaks  and 
crests  of  her  mountains — making  them  so  beautiful 
that  mortals  would  always  begin  and  end  each  day 
by  looking  up  at  them.  Of  course,  the  moment  I  saw 
you  I  knew  who  you  were." 

Unaffectedly  pleased  as  a  child  at  his  quaint  fancy, 
she  answered  merrily,  "And  so  you  hid  among  the 
roses  to  trap  me,  I  suppose." 

"Indeed,  I  did  not,"  he  retorted  indignantly.  "I 
was  forced  to  fly  from  a  wicked  Flibbertigibbet  who 
seeks  to  torment  me.  I  barely  escaped  with  my  life, 
and  came  into  the  garden  to  hide  and  recover  from 
my  fright.  Then  I  heard  the  most  wonderful  music 
and  guessed  that  you  must  be  somewhere  around. 
Then  Czar,  who  had  come  with  me  to  hide  from  the 
Flibbertigibbet  in  the  house,  left  me.  I  looked  to  see 
where  he  had  gone,  and  so  I  saw,  sure  enough,  that  it 
was  you.  All  my  life,  you  know,  I  have  wanted  to 
catch  a  real  nymph;  but  never  could.  So  when  you 
came  into  the  arbor,  I  couldn't  resist  trying  again. 
And,  now,  here  we  are — with  Czar  to  say  it  is  all 
right." 

At  his  fanciful  words,  she  laughed  again,  and  her 
cheeks  flushed  with  pleasure.  Then,  with  grave 
sweetness,  she  said,  "Won't  you  sit  down,  please, 
and  let  me  explain  seriously  ?" 

"I  suppose  you  must  pretend  to  be  like  the  rest  of 


12G 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOKLD 

us,"  he  returned  with  an  air  of  resignation,  "but  all 
the  same,  Czar  and  I  know  you  are  not." 

When  they  were  seated,  she  said  simply,  "My  name 
is  Sibyl  Andres.  This  place  used  to  be  my  home. 
My  mother  planted  this  garden  with  her  own  hands. 
Many  of  these  roses  were  brought  from  our  home  in 
the  mountains,  where  I  was  born,  and  where  I  lived 
with  father  and  mother  until  five  years  ago.  I 
feel,  still,  as  though  the  old  place  in  the  hills  were  my 
real  home,  and  every  summer,  when  nearly  every  one 
goes  away  from  Fairlands  and  there  is  nothing  for 
me  to  do,  Myra  Willard  and  I  go  up  there,  for  as 
long  as  we  can.  You  see,  I  teach  music  and  play  in 
the  churches.  Miss  Willard  taught  me.  She  and 
mother  are  the  only  teachers  I  have  ever  had.  After 
father's  death,  mother  and  Myra  and  I  lived  here 
for  two  years;  then  mother  died,  and  Myra  and  I 
moved  to  that  little  house  over  there,  because  we 
could  not  afford  to  keep  this  place.  But  the  man 
who  bought  it  gave  me  permission  to  care  for  the 
garden;  so  I  come  almost  every  day — through  that 
little  gate  in  the  corner  of  the  hedge,  there — to  tend 
the  roses.  Since  you  men  moved  in,  though,  I  come, 
mostly,  in  the  morning — early — before  you  are  up. 
I  only  slip  in,  sometimes,  for  a  few  minutes,  in  the 
afternoon — when  I  think  it  will  be  safe.  You  see, 
being  strangers,  I — I  feared  you  would  think  me 
bold — if  I — if  I  asked  to  come.  So  many  people 
really  wouldn't  understand,  you  know." 

Conrad  Lagrange's  deep  voice  was  very  gentle  as 
he  said,  "Mr.  King  and  I  have  known,  all  the  time, 


127 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

that  we  had  no  real  claim  upon  this  garden,  Miss 
Andres."  Then,  with  his  whimsical  smile,  he  added, 
"You  see,  we  felt,  from  the  very  first,  that  it  was 
haunted  by  a  lovely  spirit  that  would  vanish  utterly 
if  we  intruded.  That  is  why  we  have  been  so  careful. 
We  did  not  want  to  frighten  you  away.  And  besides, 
you  know,  Czar  told  us  that  it  was  all  right." 

The  blue  eyes  shone  through  a  bright  mist  as  she 
answered  the  man's  kindly  words.  "You  are  good, 
Mr.  Lagrange.  And  all  the  time  it  was  really  you 
of  whom  I  was  so  afraid." 

"Why  me,  more  than  my  friend  ?"  he  asked,  re- 
garding her  thoughtfully. 

She  colored  a  little  under  his  searching  gaze,  but 
answered  with  that  child-like  frankness  that  was  so 
much  a  part  of  her  winsome  charm,  "Why,  because 
your  friend  is  an  artist — I  thought  he  would  be  sure 
to  understand.  I  knew,  of  course,  that  you  were  the 
famous  author;  everybody  talks  about  your  living 
here."  She  seemed  to  think  that  her  words  explained. 

"You  mean  that  you  were  afraid  of  me  because  I 
am  famous  ?"  he  asked  doubtfully. 

"Oh  no,"  she  answered,  "not  because  you  are 
famous.  I  mean — I  was  not  afraid  of  your  fame" 
she  smiled. 

"And  now,"  said  the  novelist  decisively,  "you  must 
tell  me  at  once — do  you  read  my  books  ?"  He  waited, 
as  though  much  depended  upon  her  answer. 

The  blue  eyes  were  gazing  at  him  with  that  wide, 
unafraid  look  as  she  answered  sadly,  "No,  sir.  I 
have  tried,  but  I  can't.  They  spoil  my  music.  They 
hurt  me,  somehow,  all  over." 

128 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

Conrad  Lagrange  received  her  words  with  mingled 
emotions — with  pleased  delight  at  her  ingenuous 
frankness;  with  bitter  shame,  sorrow,  and  humili- 
ation; and,  at  the  last,  with  genuine  gladness  and 
relief.  "I  knew  it" — he  said  triumphantly — "I  knew 
it.  It  was  because  of  my  books  that  you  were  so 
afraid  of  me  ?"  He  asked  eagerly,  as  one  would  ask 
to  have  a  deep  conviction  verified. 

"You  see,"  she  said, — smiling  at  the  manner  of  his 
words, — "I  did  not  know  that  an  author  could  be  so 
different  from  the  things  he  writes  about."  Then, 
with  a  puzzled  air — "But  why  do  you  write  the 
horrid  things  that  spoil  my  music  and  make  me 
afraid  ?  Why  don't  you  write  as  you  talk — about — 
about  the  mountains  ?  Why  don't  you  make  books 
like — like" — she  seemed  to  be  searching  for  a  word, 
and  smiled  with  pleasure  when  she  found  it — "like 
yourself?" 

"Listen" — said  the  novelist  impressively,  taking 
refuge  in  his  fanciful  humor — "listen — I'll  tell  you 
a  secret  that  must  always  be  for  just  you  and  me — 
you  like  secrets  don't  you  ?" — anxiously. 

She  laughed  with  pleasure — responding  instantly 
to  his  mood.  "Of  course  I  like  secrets." 

He  nodded  approval.  "I  was  sure  you  did.  Now 
listen — I  am  not  really  Conrad  Lagrange,  the  man 
who  wrote  those  books  that  hurt  you  so — not  when  I 
am  here  in  your  rose  garden,  or  when  I  am  listening 
to  your  music,  or  when  I  am  away  up  there  in  your 
mountains,  you  know.  It  is  only  when  I  am  in  the 
unclean  world  that  reads  and  likes  my  books  that  I 
am  the  man  who  wrote  them." 

129 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOKLD 

Her  eyes  shone  with  quick  understanding.  "Of 
course,"  she  agreed,  "you  couldn't  be  that  kind  of  a 
man,  and  love  the  music,  and  like  to  be  here  among 
the  roses  or  up  in  the  mountains,  could  you  ?" 

"No,  and  I'll  tell  you  something  else  that  goes  with 
our  secret.  Your  name  is  not  really  Sibyl  Andres, 
you  know — any  more  than  you  really  live  over  there 
in  that  little  house.  Your  real  home  is  in  the  moun- 
tains— just  as  you  said — you  really  live  among  the 
glowing  peaks,  under  the  dark  pines,  on  the  ridges, 
and  in  the  purple  shadows  of  the  canyons.  You  only 
come  down  here  to  the  Fairlands  folk  with  a  message 
from  your  mountains — and  we  call  your  message 
music.  Your  name  is — " 

She  was  leaning  forward,  her  face  glowing  with 
eagerness.  "What  is  my  name?" 

"What  can  it  be  but  'Nature',"  he  said  softly. 
"That's  it,  'Nature'." 

"And  you  ?  Who  are  you  when  you  are  not — when 
you  are  not  in  that  other  world  ?" 

"Me  ?  Oh,  my  roal  name  is  'Civilization'.  Can't 
you  guess  why?" 

She  shook  her  head.    "Tell  me." 

"Because, — in  spite  of  all  that  the  world  that  reads 
my  books  can  give, — poor  old  'Civilization'  cannot  be 
happy  without  the  message  that  'Nature'  brings  from 
her  mountains." 

"And  you,  too,  love  the  mountains  and — and  this 
garden,  and  my  music?"  she  asked  half  doubtingly. 
"You  are  not  pretending  that  too — just  to  amuse 
me?" 

"No,  I  am  not  pretending  that,"  he  said. 

130 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOULD 

"Then  why — how  can  you  do  the — the  other 
thing  ?  I  can't  understand." 

"Of  course,  you  can't  understand — how  could  you  ? 
You  are  'Nature'  and  'Nature'  must  often  be  puzzled 
by  the  things  that  'Civilization'  does." 

"Yes.  I  think  that  is  true,"  she  agreed.  "But  I'm 
glad  you  like  my  music,  anyway." 

"And  so  am  I  glad — that  I  can  like  it.  That's 
the  only  thing  that  saves  me." 

"And  your  friend,  the  artist, — does  he  like  my 
mountain  music,  do  you  think  ?" 

"Very  much.    He  needs  it  too." 

"I  am  glad,"  she  answered  simply.  "I  hoped  he 
would  like  it,  and  that  it  would  help  him.  It  was 
really  for  him  that  I  have  played." 

"You  played  for  him  ?" 

"Yes,"  she  returned  without  confusion.  "You  see, 
I  did  not  know  about  you — then.  I  thought  you  were 
altogether  the  man  who  wrote  those  books — and  so  I 
could  not  play  for  you.  That  is — I  mean — you  un- 
derstand— I  could  not  play — "  again  she  seemed  to 
search  for  a  word,  and  finding  it,  smiled — "I  could 
not  play  myself  for  you.  But  I  thought  that  because 
he  was  an  artist  he  would  understand ;  and  that  if  I 
could  make  the  music  tell  him  of  the  mountains  it 
would,  perhaps,  help  him  a  little  to  make  his  work 
beautiful  and  right — do  you  see  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered  smilingly,  "I  see.  I  might 
have  known  that  it  was  for  him  that  you  brought  your 
message  from  the  hills.  But  poor  old  'Civilization'  is 
frightfully  stupid  sometimes,  you  know." 

Laughingly,  she  turned  to  the  lattice  wall  of  the 

131 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

arbor,  and  parting  the  screen  of  vines  a  little,  said  to 
him,  "Look  here!" 

Standing  beside  her,  Conrad  Lagrange,  through 
the  window  in  the  end  of  the  studio  next  the  garden, 
saw  Aaron  King  at  his  easel ;  the  artist's  position  in 
the  light  of  the  big,  north  window  being  in  a  direct 
line  between  the  two  openings  and  the  arbor.  Mrs. 
Taine  was  sitting  too  far  out  of  line  to  be  seen. 

The  girl  laughed  gleefully.  "Do  you  see  him  at 
his  work  ?  At  first,  I  only  hid  here  to  find  what  kind 
of  people  were  going  to  live  in  my  old  home.  But 
when  he  was  making  our  old  barn  into  a  studio,  and 
I  heard  who  you  both  were,  I  came  because  I  love  to 
watch  him;  as  I  try  to  make  the  music  I  think  he 
would  love  to  hear." 

The  novelist  studied  her  intently.  She  was  so  art- 
less— so  unaffected  by  the  conventions  of  the  world — 
in  a  word,  so  natural  in  expressing  her  thoughts,  that 
the  man  who  had  given  the  best  years  of  his  life  to 
feed  the  vicious,  grossly  sensual  and  bestial  imagina- 
tions of  his  readers  was  deeply  moved.  He  was  puz- 
zled what  to  say.  At  last,  he  murmured  haltingly, 
"You  like  the  artist,  then  ?" 

Her  eyes  were  full  of  curious  laughter  as  she  an- 
swered, "Why,  what  a  funny  question — when  I  have 
never  even  talked  with  him.  How  could  I  like  any 
one  I  have  never  known  ?" 

"But  you  make  your  music  for  him ;  and  you  come 
here  to  watch  him  ?" 

"Oh,  but  that  is  for  the  work  he  is  doing ;  that  is 
for  his  pictures."  She  turned  to  look  through  the 
tiny  opening  in  the  arbor.  "How  I  wish  I  could  see 

132 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

inside  that  beautiful  room.  I  know  it  must  be  beau- 
tiful. Once,  when  you  were  all  gone,  I  tried  to  steal 
in ;  but,  of  course,  he  keeps  it  locked." 

"I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do,"  said  the  man,  sud- 
denly— prompted  by  her  confession  to  resume  his 
playful  mood. 

"What  ?"  she  asked  eagerly,  in  a  like  spirit  of  fun. 

"First,"  he  answered,  half  teasingly,  "I  must  know 
if  you  could,  now,  make  your  music  for  me  as  well  as 
for  him." 

"For  the  you  that  loves  the  mountains  and  the  gar- 
den, I'm  sure  I  could,"  she  answered  promptly. 

"Well  then,  if  you  will  promise  to  do  that — if  you 
will  promise  not  to  play  yourself  for  just  him  alone 
but  for  me  too — I'll  fix  it  so  that  you  can  go  into  the 
studio  yonder." 

"Oh,  I  will  always  play  for  you,  too,  anyway — now 
that  I  know  you." 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  "we  could  just  walk  up  to  the 
door,  and  I  could  introduce  you ;  but  that  would  not 
be  proper  for  us  would  it?" 

She  shook  her  head  positively,  "I  wouldn't  like  to 
do  that.  He  would  think  I  was  intruding,  I  am 
sure." 

"Well  then,  we  will  do  it  this  way — the  first  day 
that  Mr.  King  and  I  are  both  away,  and  Yee  Kee  is 
gone,  too;  I'll  slip  out  here  and  leave  a  letter  and  a 
key  on  your  gate.  The  letter  will  tell  you  just  the 
time  when  we  go,  and  when  we  will  return — so  you 
will  know  whether  it  is  safe  for  you  or  not,  and  how 
long  you  can  stay.  Only" — he  became  very  serious — • 
"only,  you  must  promise  one  thing." 

133 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

"What?" 

"That  you  won't  look  at  the  picture  on  the  easel." 

"But  why  must  I  promise  that  ?" 

"Because  that  picture  will  not  be  finished  for  a 
long  time  yet,  and  you  must  not  look  at  it  until  I  say 
it  is  ready.  Mr.  King  wouldn't  like  you  to  see  that 
picture,  I  am  sure.  In  fact,  he  doesn't  like  for  any 
one  to  see  the  picture  he  is  working  on  just  now." 

"How  funny,"  she  said,  with  a  puzzled  look. 
"What  is  he  painting  it  for  ?  I  like  for  people  to  hear 
my  music." 

The  man  answered  before  he  thought — "But  I 
don't  like  people  to  read  my  books." 

She  shrank  back,  with  troubled  eyes,  "Oh !  is  he — 
is  he  that  kind  of  an  artist  ?" 

"No,  no,  no !"  exclaimed  the  novelist,  hastily.  "You 
must  not  think  that.  I  did  not  mean  you  to  think 
that.  If  he  was  that  kind  of  an  artist,  I  wouldn't 
let  you  go  into  the  studio  at  all.  Mr.  King  is  a  good 
man — the  best  man  I  have  ever  known.  He  is  my 
friend  because  he  knows  the  secret  about  me  that  you 
know.  He  does  not  read  my  books.  He  would  not 
read  one  of  them  for  anything.  It  is  only  that  this 
picture  is  not  finished.  When  it  is  finished,  he  will 
not  care  who  sees  it." 

"I'm  glad,"  she  said.  "You  frightened  me,  for  a 
minute — I  understand,  now." 

"And  you  promise  not  to  look  at  the  picture  on  the 
easel?" 

She  nodded, — "Of  course.  And  when  I  come  out 
I'll  lock  the  door  and  put  the  key  back  on  the  gate 
again ;  and  no  one  but  you  and  I  will  ever  know." 

134 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOULD 

"No  one  but  you  and  I  will  know,"  he  answered. 

As  he  spoke,  Czar,  who  had  been  lying  quietly  in 
the  doorway  of  the  arbor,  rose  quickly  to  his  feet, 
with  a  low  growl. 

The  girl,  peering  through  the  screen  on  the  side 
toward  the  house,  uttered  an  exclamation  of  fear  and 
drew  back,  turning  to  her  companion  appealingly. 
"O  please,  please  don't  let  that  man  find  me  here." 

Conrad  Lagrange  looked  and  saw  James  Rutlidge 
coming  down  the  path  toward  the  arched  entrance  to 
the  garden,  which  was  directly  across  from  the  arbor. 

"Stop  him,  please  stop  him,"  whispered  the  girl, 
her  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"Stay  here  until  I  get  him  out  of  sight,"  said  the 
novelist  quickly.  "I  won't  let  him  come  into  the  gar- 
den. When  we  are  gone,  you  can  make  your  escape. 
Don't  forget  the  music  for  me,  and  the  key  at  the 
gate." 

He  spoke  to  Czar,  and  with  the  dog  obediently  at 
heel  went  forward  to  meet  Mr.  Rutlidge,  who  had 
called  for  Mrs.  Taine  and  Louise. 

But  all  the  while  that  Conrad  Lagrange  was  talk- 
ing to  the  man,  and  leading  him  toward  the  door  of 
the  studio,  he  was  wondering — why  that  look  of  fear 
upon  the  face  of  the  girl  in  the  garden  ?  What  had 
Sibyl  Andres  to  do  with  James  Rutlidge  ? 


135 


CHAPTER  X 
A  CRY  IN  THE  NIGHT 

S  Conrad  Lagrange  and  Mr.  Rutlidge  en- 
tered the  studio,  Aaron  King  turned  from 
the  easel,  where  he  had  drawn  the  velvet 
curtain  to  hide  the  finished  portrait.  Mrs. 
Taine  was  standing  at  the  other  side  of  the 
room,  wrap  in  hand,  calmly  waiting,  ready 
to  go.  The  artist  greeted  Mr.  Eutlidge  cordially, 
while  the  woman  triumphantly  announced  the  com- 
pletion of  her  portrait. 

"Ah!  permit  me  to  congratulate  you,  old  man," 
said  Rutlidge,  addressing  the  artist  familiarly.  "It 
is  too  much,  I  suppose,  to  expect  a  look  at  it  this  af- 
ternoon ?" 

"Thanks,"— returned  the  artist,— "you  are  all 
coming  to-morrow,  at  three,  you  know.  I  would 
rather  not  show  it  to-day.  It  is  a  little  late  for  the 
best  light;  and  I  would  like  for  you  to  see  it  under 
the  most  favorable  conditions  possible." 

The  critic  was  visibly  flattered  by  the  painter's 
manner  and  by  his  well-chosen  emphasis  upon  the  per- 
sonal pronoun.  "Quite  right" — he  said  approvingly 
— "quite  right,  old  boy."  He  turned  to  the  novelist 
— "These  painter  chaps,  you  know,  Lagrange,  like  to 
have  a  few  hours  for  a  last  touch  or  two  before  / 
come  around."  He  laughed  pompously  at  his  own 
words — the  others  joining. 

136 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

When  Mrs.  Taine  and  her  companions  were  gone, 
the  artist  said  hurriedly  to  his  friend,  "Come  on,  let's 
get  it  over."  He  led  the  way  back  to  the  studio. 

"I  thought  the  light  was  too  bad,"  said  the  older 
man,  quizzingly,  as  they  entered  the  big  room. 

"It's  good  enough  for  your  needs,"  retorted  the 
painter  savagely.  "You  could  see  all  you  want  by 
candle-light."  He  jerked  the  curtain  angrily  aside, 
and — without  a  glance  at  the  canvas — walked  away 
to  stand  at  the  window  looking  out  upon  the  rose  gar- 
den— waiting  for  the  flood  of  the  novelist's  scorn  to 
overwhelm  him.  At  last,  when  no  sound  broke  the 
quiet  of  the  room,  he  turned — to  find  himself  alone. 

Conrad  Lagrange,  after  one  look  at  the  portrait 
on  the  easel,  had  slipped  quietly  out  of  the  building. 

The  artist  found  his  friend,  a  few  minutes  later, 
meditatively  smoking  his  pipe  on  the  front  porch, 
with  Czar  lying  at  his  feet. 

"Well,"  said  the  painter,  curiously, — anxious,  as 
he  had  said,  to  have  it  over, — "why  the  deuce  don't 
you  say  something  ?" 

The  novelist  answered  slowly,  "My  vocabulary  is 
too  limited,  for  one  reason,  and" — he  looked  thought- 
fully down  at  Czar — "I  prefer  to  wait  until  you  have 
finished  the  portrait." 

"It  is  finished,"  returned  the  artist  desperately. 
"I  swear  I'll  never  touch  a  brush  to  the  damned  thing 
again." 

The  man  with  the  pipe  spoke  to  the  dog  at  his  feet ; 
"Listen  to  him,  Czar — listen  to  the  poor  devil  of  a 
painter-man." 

The  dog  arose,  and,  placing  his  head  upon  his  mas- 

137 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

ter's  knee,  looked  up  into  the  lined  and  rugged  face, 
as  the  novelist  continued,  "If  he  was  only  a  wee  bit 
puffed  up  and  cocky  over  the  thing,  now,  we  could  ex- 
ert ourselves,  so  we  could,  couldn't  we  ?"  Czar  slowly 
waved  a  feathery  tail  in  dignified  approval.  His  mas- 
ter continued,  "But  when  a  fellow  can  do  a  crime  like 
that,  and  still  retain  enough  virtue  in  his  heart  to 
hear  his  work  shrieking  to  heaven  its  curses  upon  him 
for  calling  it  into  existence,  it's  best  for  outsiders  to 
keep  quite  still.  Your  poor  old  master  knows  whereof 
he  speaks,  doesn't  he,  dog  ?  That  he  does !" 

"And  is  that  all  you  have  to  say  on  the  subject  ?" 
demanded  the  artist,  as  though  for  some  reason  he 
was  disappointed  at  his  friend's  reticence. 

"I  might  add  a  word  of  advice,"  said  the  other. 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

"That  you  pray  your  gods — if  you  have  any — to  be 
merciful,  and  bestow  upon  you  either  less  genius  or 
more  intelligence  to  appreciate  it." 


At  three  o'clock,  the  following  afternoon,  the  little 
party  from  Fairlands  Heights  came  to  view  the  por- 
trait. Or, — as  Conrad  Lagrange  said,  while  the 
automobile  was  approaching  the  house,  "Well,  here 
they  come — 'The  Age',  accompanied  by  'Materialism', 
'Sensual',  and  'Ragtime' — to  look  upon  the  prostitu- 
tion of  Art,  and  call  it  good."  Escorted  by  the  artist 
and  the  novelist,  they  went  at  once  to  the  studio. 

The  appreciation  of  the  picture  was  instantaneous 
— so  instantaneous,  in  fact,  that  Louise  Taine's  lips 
were  shaped  to  deliver  an  expressive  "oh"  of  admira- 

138 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

tion,  even  before  the  portrait  was  revealed.  As 
though  the  painter,  in  drawing  back  the  easel  curtain, 
gave  an  appointed  signal,  that  "oh"  was  set  off  with 
the  suddenness  of  a  sky-rocket's  rush,  and  was  accom- 
panied in  its  flight  by  a  great  volume  of  sizzling, 
sputtering,  glittering,  adjectival  sparks  that — filling 
the  air  to  no  purpose  whatever — winked  out  as  they 
were  born;  the  climax  of  the  pyrotechnical  display 
being  reached  in  the  explosive  pop  of  another  "oh" 
which  released  a  brilliant  shower  of  variegated  sighs 
and  moans  and  ecstatic  looks  and  inarticulate  ex- 
clamations— ending,  of  course,  in  total  darkness. 

Mrs.  Taine  hastened  to  turn  the  artist's  embar- 
rassed attention  to  an  appreciation  that  had  the  ap- 
pearance, at  least,  of  a  more  enduring  value. 
Drawing,  with  affectionate  solicitude,  close  to  her 
husband,  she  asked, — in  a  voice  that  was  tremulous 
with  loving  care  and  anxiety  to  please, — "Do  you  like 
it,  dear  ?" 

"It  is  magnificent,  splendid,  perfect !"  This  effort 
to  give  his  praise  of  the  artist's  work  the  appearance 
of  substantial  reality  cost  the  wretched  product  of 
lust  and  luxury  a  fit  of  coughing  that  racked  his 
burnt-out  body  almost  to  its  last  feeble  hold  upon  the 
world  of  flesh  and,  with  a  force  that  shamed  the 
strength  of  his  words,  drove  home  the  truth  that 
neither  his  praise  nor  his  scorn  could  long  endure. 
When  he  could  again  speak,  he  said,  in  his  husky, 
rasping  whisper, — while  grasping  the  painter's  hand 
in  effusive  cordiality, — "My  dear  fellow,  I  congratu- 
late you.  It  is  exquisite.  It  will  create  a  sensation, 
sir,  when  it  is  exhibited.  Your  fame  is  assured.  I 

139 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

must  thank  you  for  the  honor  you  have  done  me  in 
thus  immortalizing  the  beauty  and  character  of  Mrs. 
Taine."  And  then,  to  his  wife, — "Dearest,  I  am  glad 
for  you,  and  proud.  It  is  as  worthy  of  you  as  paint 
and  canvas  could  be."  He  turned  to  Conrad  La- 
grange  who  was  an  interested  observer  of  the  scene — 
"Am  I  not  right,  Lagrange?" 

"Quite  right,  Mr.  Taine, — quite  right.  As  you 
say,  the  portrait  is  most  worthy  the  beauty  and  char- 
acter of  the  charming  subject." 

Another  paroxysm  of  coughing  mercifully  pre- 
vented the  poor  creature's  reply. 

With  one  accord,  the  little  group  turned,  now,  to 
James  Eutlidge — the  dreaded  authority  and  arbiter 
of  artistic  destinies.  That  distinguished  expert, 
while  the  others  were  speaking,  had  been  listening 
intently;  ostensibly,  the  while,  he  examined  the  pic- 
ture with  a  show  of  trained  skill  that,  it  seemed,  could 
not  fail  to  detect  unerringly  those  more  subtle  values 
and  defects  that  are  popularly  supposed  to  be  hidden 
from  the  common  eye.  Silently,  in  breathless  awe, 
they  watched  the  process  by  which  professional  criti- 
cism finds  its  verdict.  That  is,  they  thought  they 
were  watching  the  process.  In  reality,  the  method  is 
more  subtle  than  they  knew. 

While  the  great  critic  moved  back  and  forth  in 
front  of  the  easel ;  drew  away  from  or  bent  over  to 
closely  scrutinize  the  canvas ;  shifted  the  easel  a  hair 
breadth  several  times;  sat  down;  stood  erect; 
hummed  and  muttered  to  himself  abstractedly; 
cleared  his  throat  with  an  impressive  "Ahem" ; 
squinted  through  nearly  closed  eyes,  with  his  head 

140 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

thrown  back,  or  turned  in  every  side  angle  his  fat 
neck  would  permit;  peered  through  his  half -closed 
fist;  peeped  through  funnels  of  paper;  sighted  over 
and  under  his  open  hand  or  a  paper  held  to  shut  out 
portions  of  the  painting; — the  others  thought  they 
saw  him  expertly  weighing  the  evidence  for  and 
against  the  merit  of  the  work.  In  reality  it  was  his 
ears  and  not  his  eyes  that  helped  the  critic  to  his 
final  decision — a  decision  which  was  delivered,  at 
last,  with  a  convincing  air  of  ponderous  finality.  In- 
deed, it  was  a  judgment  from  which  there  could  be 
no  appeal,  for  it  expressed  exactly  the  views  of  those 
for  whose  benefit  it  was  rendered.  Then,  in  a  manner 
subtly  insinuating  himself  into  the  fellowship  of  the 
famous,  he,  too,  turned  to  Conrad  Lagrange  with  a 
scholarly ;  "Do  you  not  agree,  sir  ?" 

The  novelist  answered  with  slow  impressiveness ; 
"The  picture,  undoubtedly,  fully  merits  the  appre- 
ciation and  praise  you  have  given  it.  I  have  already 
congratulated  Mr.  King — who  was  kind  enough  to 
show  me  his  work  before  you  arrived." 

After  this,  Tee  Kee  appeared  upon  the  scene,  and 
tea  was  served  in  the  studio — a  fitting  ceremony 
to  the  launching  of  another  genius. 

"By  the  way,  Mr.  Lagrange,"  said  Mrs.  Taine, 
quite  casually, — when,  under  the  influence  of  the 
mildly  stimulating  beverage,  the  talk  had  assumed 
a  more  frivolous  vein, — "Who  is  your  talented  neigh- 
bor that  so  charms  Mr.  King  with  the  music  of  a 
violin?" 

The  novelist,  as  he  turned  toward  the  speaker,  shot 
a  quick  glance  at  the  artist.  Nor  did  those  keen, 

141 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

baffling  eyes  fail  to  note  that,  at  the  question,  James 
Rutlidge  had  paused  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence. 
"That  is  one  of  the  mysteries  of  our  romantic  sur- 
roundings, madam,"  said  Conrad  Lagrange,  easily. 

"And  a  very  charming  mystery  it  seems  to  be,"  re- 
turned the  woman.  "It  has  been  quite  affecting  to 
watch  its  influence  upon  Mr.  King." 

The  artist  laughed.  "I  admit  that  I  found  the 
music,  in  combination  with  the  beauty  I  have  so 
feebly  tried  to  put  upon  canvas,  very  stimulating." 

A  flash  of  angry  color  swept  into  the  perfect  cheeks 
of  Mrs.  Taine,  as  she  retorted  with  meaning;  "You 
are  as  flattering  in  your  speech  as  you  are  with  your 
brush.  I  assure  you  I  do  not  consider  myself  in  your 
unknown  musician's  class." 

The  small  eyes  of  James  Rutlidge  were  fixed  in- 
quiringly upon  the  speakers,  while  his  heavy  face  be- 
trayed— to  the  watchful  novelist — an  interest  he 
could  not  hide.  "Is  this  music  of  such  exceptional 
merit  ?"  he  asked  with  an  attempt  at  indifference. 

Louise  Taine — sensing  that  the  performances  of 
the  unnamed  violinist  had  been  acceptable  to  Conrad 
Lagrange  and  Aaron  King — the  two  representatives 
of  the  world  to  which  she  aspired — could  not  let  the 
opportunity  slip.  She  fairly  deluged  them  with  the 
spray  of  her  admiring  ejaculations  in  praise  of  the 
musician — employing,  hit  or  miss,  every  musical  term 
that  popped  into  her  vacuous  head. 

"Indeed," — said  the  critic, — "I  seem  to  have 
missed  a  treat."  Then,  directly  to  the  artist, — "And 
you  say  the  violinist  is  wholly  unknown  to  you?" 

"Wholly,"  returned  the  painter,  shortly. 

142 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

Conrad  Lagrange  saw  a  faint  smile  of  understand- 
ing and  disbelief  flit  for  an  instant  over  the  heavy 
face  of  James  Rutlidge. 

When  the  automobile,  at  last,  was  departing  with 
the  artist's  guests;  the  two  friends  stood  for  a  mo- 
ment watching  it  up  the  road  to  the  west,  toward 
town.  As  the  big  car  moved  away,  they  saw  Mrs. 
Taine  leai  forward  to  speak  to  the  chauffeur  while 
James  Rutlidge,  who  was  in  the  front  ssat,  turned 
and  shook  his  head  as  though  in  protest.  The  woman 
appeared  to  insist.  The  machine  slowed  down,  as 
though  the  chauffeur,  in  doubt,  awaited  the  outcome 
of  the  discussion.  Then,  just  in  front  of  that  neigh- 
boring house,  Rutlidge  seemed  to  yield  abruptly,  and 
the  automobile  turned  suddenly  in  toward  the  curb 
and  stopped.  Mrs.  Taine  alighted,  and  disappeared 
in  the  depths  of  the  orange  grove. 

Aaron  King  and  Conrad  Lagrange  looked  at  each 
other,  for  a  moment,  in  questioning  silence.  The  ar- 
tist laughed.  "Our  poor  little  mystery,"  he  said. 

But  the  novelist — as  they  went  toward  the  house — 
cursed  Mrs.  Taine,  James  Rutlidge,  and  all  their  kin 
and  kind,  with  a  vehement  earnestness  that  startled 
his  companion — familiar  as  the  latter  was  with  his 
friend's  peculiar  talent  in  the  art  of  vigorous  ex- 
pression. 

After  dinner,  that  evening,  the  painter  and  the  nov- 
elist sat  on  the  porch — as  their  custom  was — to  watch 
the  day  go  out  of  the  sky  and  the  night  come  over 
valley  and  hill  and  mountain  until,  above  the  highest 
peaks,  the  stars  of  God  looked  down  upon  the  twink- 
ling lights  of  the  towns  of  men.  At  that  hour,  too,  it 

143 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOKLD 

was  the  custom,  now,  for  the  violinist  hidden  in  the 
orange  grove,  to  make  the  music  they  both  so  loved. 

In  the  music,  that  night,  there  was  a  feeliL  *  that, 
to  them,  was  new — a  vague,  uncertain,  halting  under- 
tone, that  was  born,  they  felt,  of  fear.  It  stirred  them 
to  question  and  to  wonder.  Without  apparent  cause 
or  reason,  they  each  oddly  connected  the  troubled  tone 
in  the  music  with  the  stopping  of  the  automobile  from 
Fairlands  Heights,  that  afternoon,  at  the  gate  of  the 
little  house  next  door — the  artist,  because  of  Mrs. 
Taine's  insistent  inquiry  about  the,  to  him,  unknown 
musician ; — Conrad  Lagrange,  because  of  the  manner 
of  the  girl  in  the  garden  when  James  Rutlidge  ap- 
peared, and  because  of  the  critic's  interest  when  they 
had  spoken  of  the  violinist  in  the  studio.  But  neither 
expressed  his  thought  to  the  other. 

Presently,  the  music  ceased,  and  they  sat  for  an 
hour,  perhaps,  in  silence — as  close  friends  may  do — 
exchanging  only  now  and  then  a  word. 

Suddenly,  they  were  startled  by  a  cry.  In  the  still 
darkness  of  the  night,  from  the  mysterious  depths  of 
the  orange  grove,  the  sound  came  with  such  a  shock 
that  the  two  men,  for  the  moment,  held  their  places, 
motionless — questioning  each  other  sharply — "What 
was  that?"  "Did  you  hear?" — as  though  they 
doubted,  almost,  their  own  ears. 

The  cry  came  again ;  this  time,  undoubtedly,  from 
that  neighboring  house  to  the  west.  It  was  unmis- 
takably the  cry  of  a  woman — a  woman  in  fear  and 
pain. 

They  leaped  to  their  feet. 

Again  the  cry  came  from  the  black  depths  of  the 

144 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

orange  grove — shuddering,  horrible — in  an  agony  of 
fear. 

The  two  men  sprang  from  the  porch,  and,  through 
the  darkness  that  in  the  orange  grove  was  like  a  black 
wall,  ran  toward  the  spot  from  which  the  sound  came 
— the  dog  at  their  heels. 

Breathless,  they  broke  into  the  little  yard  in  front 
of  the  tiny  box-like  house.  Lights  shone  in  the  win- 
dows. All  seemed  peaceful  and  still.  Czar  betrayed 
no  uneasiness.  Going  to  the  front  door,  they 
knocked. 

There  was  no  answer  save  the  sound  of  some  one 
moving  inside. 

Again,  the  artist  knocked  vigorously. 

The  door  opened,  and  a  woman  stood  on  the  thres- 
hold. 

Standing  a  little  to  one  side,  the  men  saw  her  fea- 
tures clearly,  in  the  light  from  the  room.  It  was  the 
woman  with  the  disfigured  face. 

Conrad  Lagrange  was  first  to  command  himself. 
"I  beg  your  pardon,  madam.  We  live  in  the  house 
next  door.  We  thought  we  heard  a  cry  of  distress. 
Hay  we  offer  our  assistance  in  any  way?  Is  there 
anything  we  can  do  ?" 

"Thank  you,  sir,  you  are  very  kind," — returned 
the  woman,  in  a  low  voice, — "but  it  is  nothing. 
There  is  nothing  you  can  do." 

And  the  voice  of  Sibyl  Andres,  who  stood  farther 
back  in  the  room,  where  the  artist  from  his  position 
could  not  see  her,  added,  "It  was  good  of  you  to  come, 
Mr.  Lagrange;  but  it  is  really  nothing.  We  are  so 
sorry  you  were  disturbed." 

145 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

"Not  at  all,"  returned  the  men,  as  the  woman  of 
the  disfigured  face  drew  back  from  the  door.  "Good 
night." 

"Good  night,"  came  from  within  the  house,  and 
the  door  was  shut 


146 


CHAPTER  XI 
GO  LOOK  IN  YOUR  MIRROR,  YOU  FOOL 

S  the  Taine  automobile  left  Aaron  King 
and  his  friend,  that  afternoon,  Mrs.  Taine 
spoke  to  the  chauffeur;  "You  may  stop  a 
moment,  at  the  next  house,  Henry." 

If  she  had  fired  a  gun,  James  Rutlidge 
could  not  have  turned  with  a  more  startled 
suddenness. 

"What  in  thunder  do  you  want  there?"  he 
demanded  shortly. 

"I  want  to  stop,"  she  returned  calmly. 
"But  I  must  get  down  town,  at  once,"  he  pro- 
tested.    "I  have  already  lost  the  best  part  of  the 
afternoon." 

"Your  business  seems  to  have  become  important 
very  suddenly,"  she  observed,  sarcastically.  , 

"I  have  something  to  do  besides  making  calls  with 
you,"  he  retorted.  "Go  on,  Henry." 

Mrs.  Taine  spoke  sharply ;  "Really,  Jim,  you  are 
going  too  far.  Henry,  turn  in  at  the  house."  The 
machine  moved  toward  the  curb  and  stopped.  As  she 
stepped  from  the  car,  she  added,  "I  will  only  be  a 
minute,  Jim." 

Rutlidge  growled  an  inarticulate  curse. 
"What  deviltry  do  you  suppose  she  is  up  to  now," 
rasped  Mr.  Taine. 

147 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

Which  brought  from  his  daughter  the  usual  pro- 
test,— "O,  papa,  don't." 

As  Mrs.  Taine  approached  the  house,  Sibyl  An- 
dres— busy  among  the  flowers  that  bordered  the  walk 
— heard  the  woman's  step,  and  stood  quietly  waiting 
her.  Mrs.  Taine's  face  was  perfect  in  its  expression 
of  cordial  interest,  with  just  enough — but  not  too 
much — of  a  conscious,  well-bred  superiority.  The 
girl's  countenance  was  lighted  by  an  expression  of 
childlike  surprise  and  wonder.  What  had  brought 
this  well-known  leader  in  the  social  world  from  Fair- 
lands  Heights  to  the  poor,  little  house  in  the  orange 
grove,  so  far  down  the  hill  ? 

"Good  afternoon,"  said  the  caller.  "You  are  Miss 
Andres,  are  you  not?" 

"Yes,"  returned  the  girl,  with  a  smile.  "Won't 
you  come  in  ?  I  will  call  Miss  Willard." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  no.  I  have  only  a  moment.  My 
friends  are  waiting.  I  am  Mrs.  Taine." 

"Yes,  I  know.    I  have  often  seen  you  passing." 

The  other  turned  abruptly.  "What  beautiful 
flowers." 

"Aren't  they  lovely,"  agreed  Sibyl,  with  frank 
pleasure  at  the  visitor's  appreciation.  "Let  me  give 
you  a  bunch."  Swiftly  she  gathered  a  generous  arm- 
ful. 

Mrs.  Taine  protested,  but  the  girl  presented  her 
offering  with  such  grace  and  winsomeness  that  the 
other  could  not  refuse.  As  she  received  the  gift,  the 
perfect  features  of  the  woman  of  the  world  were  col- 
ored by  a  blush  that  even  she  could  not  control.  "I 


148 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOKLD 

understand,  Miss  Andres,"  she  said,  "that  you  are 
an  accomplished  violinist." 

"I  teach  and  play  in  Park  Church,"  was  the  simple 
answer. 

"I  have  never  happened  to  hear  you,  myself," — 
said  Mrs.  Taine  smoothly, — "but  my  friends  who  live 
next  door — Mr.  Lagrange  and  Mr.  King — have  told 
me  about  you." 

"Oh!"  The  girl's  voice  was  vaguely  troubled, 
while  the  other,  watching,  saw  the  blush  that  colored 
her  warmly  tinted  cheeks.  s 

"It  is  good  of  you  to  play  for  them,"  continued  the 
woman  from  Fairlands  Heights,  casually.  "You 
must  enjoy  the  society  of  such  famous  men,  very 
much.  There  are  a  great  many  people,  you  know, 
who  would  envy  you  your  friendship  with  them." 

The  girl  replied  quickly,  "O,  but  you  are  mistaken. 
I  am  not  acquainted  with  them,  at  all ;  that  is — not 
with  Mr.  King — I  have  never  spoken  to  him — and  I 
only  met  Mr.  Lagrange,  for  a  few  minutes,  by 
accident." 

"Indeed !  But  I  am  forgetting  the  purpose  of  my 
call,  and  my  friends  will  become  impatient.  Do  you 
ever  play  for  private  entertainments,  Miss  Andres  ? 
— for — say  a  dinner,  or  a  reception,  you  know  ?" 

"I  would  be  very  glad  for  such  an  engagement, 
Mrs.  Taine.  I  must  earn  what  I  can  with  my  music, 
and  there  are  not  enough  pupils  to  occupy  all  my 
time.  But  perhaps  you  should  hear  me  play,  first. 
I  will  get  my  violin." 

Mrs.  Taine  checked  her,  "Oh,  no,  indeed.     It  is 


149 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

quite  unnecessary,  iny  dear.  The  opinion  of  your  dis- 
tinguished neighbors  is  quite  enough.  I  shall  keep 
you  in  mind  for  some  future  occasion.  I  just  wished 
to  learn  if  you  would  accept  such  an  engagement. 
Good-by.  Thanks — so  much — for  your  flowers." 

She  was  upon  the  point  of  turning  away,  when  a 
low  cry  from  the  nearby  porch  startled  them  both. 
Turning,  they  saw  the  woman  with  the  disfigured 
face,  standing  in  the  doorway;  an  expression  of 
mingled  wonder,  love,  and  supplication  upon  her  hid- 
eously marred  features.  As  they  looked,  she  started 
toward  them, — impulsively  stretching  out  her  arms, 
as  though  the  gesture  was  an  involuntary  expression 
of  some  deep  emotion, — then  checked  herself,  sud- 
denly, as  though  in  doubt. 

Sibyl  Andres  uttered  an  exclamation.  "Why, 
Myra !  what  is  it,  dear  ?" 

Mrs.  Taine  turned  away  with  a  gesture  of  horror, 
saying  to  the  girl  in  a  low,  hurried  voice,  "Dear  me, 
how  dreadful !  I  really  must  be  going." 

As  she  went  down  the  flower-bordered  path  towards 
the  street,  the  woman  on  the  porch,  again,  stretched 
out  her  arms  appealingly.  Then,  as  Sibyl  reached 
her  side,  the  poor  creature  clasped  the  girl  in  a  close 
embrace,  and  burst  into  bitter  tears. 


Upon  the  return  of  the  Taines  and  James  Rutlidge 
to  the  house  on  Fairlands  Heights,  Mrs.  Taine  retired 
immediately  to  her  own  luxuriously  appointed 
apartments. 

At  dinner,  a  maid  brought  to  the  household  word 

150 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

that  her  mistress  was  suffering  from  a  severe  head- 
ache and  would  not  be  down  and  begged  that  she 
might  not  be  disturbed  during  the  evening. 

Alone  in  her  room,  Mrs.  Taine — her  headache  be- 
ing wholly  conventional — gave  herself  unreservedly 
to  the  thoughts  that  she  could  not,  under  the  eyes  of 
others,  entertain  without  restraint.  She  was  seated 
at  a  window  that  looked  down  upon  the  carefully 
graded  levels  of  the  envying  Fairlanders  and  across 
the  wide  sweep  of  the  valley  below  to  the  mountains 
which,  from  that  lofty  point  of  vantage,  could  be  seen 
from  the  base  of  their  lowest  foothills  to  the  crests  of 
their  highest  peaks.  But  the  woman  who  lived  on 
the  Heights  of  Fairlands  saw  neither  the  homes  of 
her  neighbors,  the  busy  valley  below,  nor  the  moun- 
tains that  lifted  so  far  above  them  all.  Her  thoughts 
were  centered  upon  what,  to  her,  was  more  than  these. 

When  night  was  gathering  over  the  scene,  her  maid 
entered  softly.  Mrs.  Taine  dismissed  the  woman 
with  a  word,  telling  her  not  to  return  until  she  rang. 
Leaving  the  window,  after  drawing  the  shades  close, 
she  paced  the  now  lighted  room,  in  troubled  uneasi- 
ness of  mind.  Here  and  there,  she  paused  to  touch 
or  handle  some  familiar  object — a  photograph  in  a 
silver  frame,  a  book  on  the  carved  table,  the  trifles  on 
her  open  desk,  or  an  ornamental  vase  on  the  mantle 
• — then  moved  restlessly  away  to  continue  her  aimless 
exercise.  When  the  silence  was  rudely  broken  by  the 
sound  of  a  knock  at  her  door,  she  stood  still — a  look 
of  anger  marring  the  well-schooled  beauty  of  her 
features. 

The  knock  was  repeated. 

151 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

With  an  exclamation  of  impatient  annoyance,  she 
crossed  the  room,  and  flung  open  the  door. 

Without  leave  or  apology,  her  husband  entered: 
and,  as  he  did  so,  was  seized  by  a  paroxysm  of  cough- 
ing that  sent  him  reeling,  gasping  and  breathless,  to 
the  nearest  chair. 

Mrs.  Taine  stood  watching  her  husband  coldly, 
with  a  curious,  speculative  expression  on  her  face  that 
she  made  no  attempt  to  hide.  When  his  torture  was 
abated — for  the  time — leaving  him  exhausted  and 
trembling  with  weakness,  she  said  coldly,  "Well,  what 
do  you  want  ?  What  are  you  doing  here  ?" 

The  man  lifted  his  pallid,  haggard  face  and,  with 
a  yellow,  claw-like  hand  wiped  the  beads  of  clammy 
sweat  from  his  forehead ;  while  his  deep-sunken  eyes 
leered  at  her  with  an  insane  light. 

The  woman  was  at  no  pains  to  conceal  her  disgust. 
In  her  voice  there  was  no  hint  of  pity.  "Didn't 
Marie  tell  you  that  I  wished  to  be  alone  ?" 

"Of  course,"  he  jeered  in  his  rasping  whisper, 
"that's  why  I  came."  He  gave  a  hideous  resemblance 
to  a  laugh,  which  ended  in  a  cough — and,  again,  he 
drew  his  skinny,  shaking  hand  across  his  damp  fore- 
head. "That's  the  time  that  a  man  should  visit  his 
wife,  isn't  it  ?  When  she  is  alone.  Or" — he  grinned 
mockingly — "when  she  wishes  to  be  ?" 

She  regarded  him  with  open  scorn  and  loathing. 
"You  unclean  beast!  Will  you  take  yourself  out  of 
my  room  ?" 

He  gazed  at  her,  as  a  malevolent  devil  might  gloat 
over  a  soul  delivered  up  for  torture.  "Not  until  I 
choose  to  go,  my  dear." 

152 


'Well,  what  do  you  want?     \Vhat  arc  you  doinc  here?" 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

Suddenly  changing  her  manner,  she  smiled  with 
deliberate,  mocking  humor.  While  he  watched,  she 
moved  leisurely  to  a  deep,  many-cushioned  couch; 
and,  arranging  the  pillows,  reclined  among  them  in 
the  careless  abandonment  of  voluptuous  ease  and  phy- 
sical content.  Openly,  ostentatiously,  she  exhibited 
herself  to  his  burning  gaze  in  various  graceful  poses — 
lifting  her  arms  above  her  head  to  adjust  a  cushion 
more  to  her  liking;  turning  and  stretching  her  beau- 
tiful body;  moving  her  limbs  with  sinuous  enjoy- 
ment— as  disregardful  of  his  presence  as  though  she 
were  alone.  At  last  she  spoke  in  cool,  even,  colorless 
tones ;  "Perhaps  you  will  tell  me  what  you  want  ?" 

The  wretched  victim  of  his  own  unbridled  sensual- 
ity shook  with  inarticulate  rage.  Choking  and  cough- 
ing, he  writhed  in  his  chair — his  emaciated  limbs 
twisted  grotesquely;  his  sallow  face  bathed  in  per- 
spiration; his  claw-like  hands  opening  and  closing; 
his  bloodless  lips  curled  back  from  his  yellow  teeth,  in 
a  horrid  grin  of  impotent  fury.  And  all  the  while 
she  lay  watching  him  with  that  pitiless,  mocking, 
smile.  It  was  as  though  the  malevolent  devil  and  the 
tortured  soul  had  suddenly  changed  places. 

When  the  man  could  speak,  he  reviled  her,  in  his 
rasping  whisper,  with  curses  that  it  seemed  must  blis- 
ter his  tongue.  She  received  his  effort  with  jeering 
laughter  and  taunting  words;  moving  her  body,  now 
and  then,  among  the  cushions,  with  an  air  of  purely 
physical  enjoyment  that,  to  the  other,  was  maddening. 

"If  this  is  all  you  came  for," — she  said,  easily, — 
"you  might  have  spared  yourself  the  effort — don't 
you  think  ?" 

153 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

Controlling  himself,  in  a  measure,  he  returned,  "I 
came  to  tell  you  that  your  intimacy  with  that  damned 
painter  must  stop." 

Her  eyes  narrowed  slightly.  One  hand,  hidden  in 
the  cushions,  clenched  until  her  rings  hurt.  "Just 
what  do  you  mean  by  my  intimacy?"  she  asked 
evenly. 

"You  know  what  I  mean,"  he  replied  coarsely.  "I 
mean  what  intimacy  with  a  man  always  means  to  a 
woman  like  you." 

"The  only  meaning  that  a  creature  of  your  foul 
mind  can  understand,"  she  retorted  smoothly.  "If  it 
were  worth  while  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  would  say 
that  my  conduct  when  alone  with  Mr.  King  has  been 
as  proper  as — as  when  I  am  alone  with  you." 

The  taunt  maddened  him.  Interrupted  by  spells 
of  coughing — choking,  gasping,  fighting  for  breath, 
his  eyes  blazing  with  hatred  and  lust,  mingling  his 
words  with  oaths  and  curses — he  raged  at  her.  "And 
do  you  think — that,  because  I  am  so  nearly  dead, — I 
do  not  resent  what — I  saw,  to-day  ?  Do  you  think — I 
am  so  far  gone  that  I  cannot — understand — your  in- 
terest in  this  man, — after — watching  you,  together, 
all — the  afternoon  ?  Has  there  been  any  one — in  his 
studio,  except  you  two,  when — he  was  painting  you 
in  that  dress — which  you — designed  for  his  benefit  ? 
Oh,  no,  indeed, — you  and  your — genius  could  not  be 
interrupted, — for  the  sake — of  his  art.  His  art! 
Great  God ! — was  there  ever  such  a  damnable  farce — 
since  hell  was  invented  ?  Art ! — you — you — you! — " 
crazed  with  jealous  fury,  he  pointed  at  her  with  his 
yellow,  shaking,  skeleton  fingers;  and  struggled  to 

154 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

raise  his  voice  above  that  rasping  whisper  until  the 
cords  of  his  scrawny  neck  stood  out  and  his  face  was 
distorted  with  the  strain  of  his  effort — "You!  painted 
as  a — modest  Quaker  Maid, — with  all  the  charm  of 
innocence, — virtue,  and  religious  piety  in  your  face. 
You!  And  that  picture  will  be  exhibited — and  writ- 
ten about — as  a  work  of  art!  You'll  pull  all  the 
strings, — and  use  all  your  influence, — and  the  thing 
— will  be  received  as  a — masterpiece." 

"And,"  she  added  calmly,  "you  will  write  a  check 
— and  lie,  as  you  did  this  afternoon." 

Without  heeding  her  remark,  he  went  on, — "You 
know  the  picture  is  worthless.  He  knows  it, — Con- 
rad Lagrange  knows  it, — Jim  Rutlidge  knows  it, — 
the  whole  damned  clique  and  gang  of  you  know  it. 
He's  like  all  his  kind, — a  pretender, — a  poser, — play- 
ing into  the  hands — of  such  women  as  you;  to  win 
social  position — and  wealth.  And  we  and  our  kind — 
we  pretend  to  believe — in  such  damned  parasites, — 
and  exalt  them  and  what  we — call  their  art, — and 
keep  them  in  luxury,  and  buy  their  pictures; — be- 
cause they  prostitute — their  talents  to  gratify  our 
vanity.  We  know  it's  all  a  damned  sham — and  a  pre- 
tense,— and  that  if  they  were  real  artists, — with  an 
honest  workman's  respect  for  their  work, — they 
wouldn't — recognize  us." 

"Don't  forget  to  send  him  a  check," — she  mur- 
mured— "you  can't  afford  to  neglect  it,  you  know — 
think  how  people  would  talk." 

"Don't  worry,"  he  replied.  "There'll  be  no  talk. 
I'll  send  the  genius  his  check — for  making  love — to 
my  wife  in  the  sacred  name  of  art, — and  I'll  lie — 

155 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

about  his  picture  with — the  rest  of  you.  But  there 
will  be — no  more  of  your  intimacy  wich  him.  You're 
my  wife, — in  spite  of  hell, — and  from  now  on — I'll 
see — that  you  are  true — to  me.  Your  sickening  pose 
— of  modesty  in  dress  shall  be  something — more  than 
a  pose.  For  the  little  time  I  have  left, — I'll  have — 
you  to — myself  or  I'll  kill  you." 

His  reference  to  her  refusal  to  uncover  her  shoul- 
ders in  public  broke  the  woman's  calm  and  aroused 
her  to  a  cold  fury.  Springing  to  her  feet,  she  stood 
over  him  as  he  sat  huddled  in  his  chair,  exhausted  by 
his  effort. 

"What  is  your  silly,  idle  threat  beside  the  fact," 
she  said  with  stinging  scorn.  "To  have  killed  me,  in- 
stead of  making  me  your  wife,  would  have  been  a 
kindness  greater  than  you  are  capable  of.  You  know 
how  unspeakably  vile  you  were  when  you  bought  me. 
You  know  how  every  hour  of  my  life  with  you  has 
been  a  torment  to  me.  You  should  be  grateful  that 
I  have  helped  you  to  live  your  lie — that  I  have  played 
the  game  of  respectability  with  you — that  I  am  will- 
ing to  play  it  a  little  while  longer,  until  you  lay  down 
your  hand  for  good,  and  release  us  both. 

"Suppose  I  were  what  you  think  me  ?  What  right 
have  you  to  object  to  my  pleasures  ?  Have  you — in 
all  your  life  of  idle,  vicious,  luxury — have  you  ever 
feared  to  do  evil  if  it  appealed  to  your  bestial  nature  ? 
You  know  you  have  not.  You  have  feared  only  the 
appearance  of  evil.  To  be  as  evil  as  you  like  so  long 
as  you  can  avoid  the  appearance  of  evil ;  that's  the 
game  you  have  taught  me  to  play.  That's  the  game 
we  have  played  together.  That's  the  game  we  and  our 

156 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOELD 

kind  insist  the  artists  and  writers  shall  help  us  play. 
That's  the  only  game  I  know,  and,  by  the  rule  of  our 
game,  so  long  as  the  world  sees  nothing,  I  shall  do 
what  pleases  me. 

"You  have  had  your  day  with  me.  You  have  had 
what  you  paid  for.  What  right  have  you  to  deny  me, 
now,  an  hour's  f orgetfulness  ?  When  I  think  of  what 
I  might  have  been,  but  for  you,  I  wonder  that  I  have 
cared  to  live,  and  I  would  not — except  for  the  poor 
sport  of  torturing  you. 

"You  scoff  at  Mr.  King's  portait  of  me  because  he 
has  not  painted  me  as  I  am !  What  would  you  have 
said  if  he  had  painted  me  as  I  am  ?  What  would  you 
say  if  Conrad  Lagrange  should  write  the  truth  about 
us  and  our  kind,  for  his  millions  of  readers  ?  You 
sneer  at  me  because  I  cannot  uncover  my  shoulders  in 
the  conventional  dress  of  my  class,  and  so  make  a 
virtue  of  a  necessity  and  deceive  the  world  by  a  pre- 
tense of  modesty.  Go  look  in  your  mirror,  you  fool ! 
Your  right  to  sneer  at  me  for  my  poor  little  pretense 
is  denied  you  by  every  line  of  your  repulsive  counte- 
nance. ISTow  get  out.  I'm  going  to  retire." 

And  she  rang  for  her  maid. 


157 


CHAPTER  XII 


FIRST  FRUITS  OF  HIS  SHAME 

HEN"  the  postman,  in  his  little  cart, 
stopped  at  the  home  of  Aaron  King  and 
his  friend,  that  day,  it  was  Conrad  La- 
grange  who  received  the  mail.  The  artist 
was  in  his  studio,  and  the  novelist,  know- 
ing that  the  painter  was  not  at  work,  went 
to  him  there  with  a  letter. 

The  portrait — still  on  the  easel — was  hidden  by 
the  velvet  curtain.  Sitting  by  a  table  that  was  lit- 
tered with  a  confusion  of  sketches,  books  and  papers, 
the  young  man  was  re-tying  a  package  of  old  letters 
that  he  had,  evidently,  just  been  reading. 

As  the  novelist  went  to  him,  the  artist  said  quietly, 
— indicating  the  package  in  his  hand, — "From  my 
mother.  She  wrote  them  during  the  last  year  of  my 
study  abroad."  When  the  other  did  not  reply,  he  con- 
tinued thoughtfully,  "Do  you  know,  Lagrange,  since 
my  acquaintance  with  you,  I  find  many  things  in 
these  old  letters  that — at  the  time  I  received  them — 
I  did  not,  at  all,  appreciate.  You  seem  to  be  helping 
me,  somehow,  to  a  better  understanding  of  my  moth- 
er's spirit  and  mind."  He  smiled. 

Presently,  Conrad  Lagrange,  when  he  could  trust 
himself  to  speak,  said,  "Your  mother's  mind  and 
spirit,  Aaron,  were  too  fine  and  rare  to  be  fully  appre- 

158 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

elated  or  understood  except  by  one  trained  in  the 
school  of  life,  itself.  When  she  wrote  those  letters, 
you  were  a  student  of  mere  craftsmanship.  She,  her- 
self, no  doubt,  recognized  that  you  would  not  fully 
comprehend  the  things  she  wrote;  but  she  put  them 
down,  out  of  the  very  fullness  of  her  intellectual  and 
spiritual  wealth — trusting  to  your  love  to  preserve  the 
letters,  and  to  the  years  to  give  you  understanding." 

"Why,"  cried  the  artist,  "those  are  almost  her  ex- 
act words — as  I  have  just  been  reading  them!" 

The  other,  smiling,  continued  quietly,  "Your  ap- 
preciation and  understanding  of  your  mother  will 
continue  to  grow  through  all  your  life,  Aaron.  When 
you  are  old — as  old  as  I  am — you  will  still  find  in 
those  letters  hidden  treasures  of  thought,  and  truths 
of  greater  value  than  you,  now,  can  realize.  But  here 
— I  have  brought  you  your  share  of  the  afternoon's 
mail." 

When  Aaron  King  opened  the  envelope  that  his 
friend  laid  on  the  table  before  him,  he  sat  regarding 
its  contents  with  an  air  of  thoughtful  meditation — 
lost  to  his  surroundings. 

The  novelist — who  had  gone  to  the  window  and  was 
looking  into  the  rose  garden — turned  to  speak  to  his 
friend ;  but  the  other  did  not  reply.  Again,  the  man 
at  the  window  addressed  the  painter;  but  still  the 
rounger  man  was  silent.  At  this,  Conrad  Lagrange 
came  back  to  the  table ;  an  expression  of  anxiety  upon 
his  face.  "What  is  it,  old  man  ?  What's  the  matter  ? 
No  bad  news,  I  hope  ?" 

Aaron  King,  aroused  from  his  fit  of  abstraction, 
laughed  shortly,  and  held  out  to  his  friend  the  letter 

159 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

he  had  just  received.  It  was  from  Mr.  Taine.  En- 
closed, was  the  millionaire's  check.  The  letter  was  a 
formal  business  note;  the  check  was  for  an  amount 
that  drew  a  low  whistle  from  the  novelist's  lips. 

"Rather  higher  pay  than  old  brother  Judas  re- 
ceived for  a  somewhat  similar  service,  isn't  it,"  he 
commented,  as  he  passed  the  letter  and  check  back  to 
the  artist.  Then,  as  he  watched  the  younger  man's 
face,  he  asked,  "What's  the  matter,  don't  you  like 
the  flavor  of  these  first  fruits  of  your  shame  ?  I  ad- 
vise you  to  cultivate  a  taste  for  this  sort  of  thing  as 
quickly  as  possible — in  your  own  defense." 

"Don't  you  think  you  are  a  little  bit  too  hard  on 
us  all,  Lagrange?"  asked  the  artist,  with  a  faint 
smile.  "These  people  are  satisfied.  The  picture 
pleases  them." 

"Of  course  they  are  pleased,"  retorted  the  other. 
"You  know  your  business.  That's  the  trouble  with 
you.  That's  the  trouble  with  us  all,  these  days — we 
painters  and  writers  and  musicians — we  know  our 
business  too  damned  well.  We  have  the  mechanics 
of  our  crafts,  the  tricks  of  our  trades,  so  well  in  hand 
that  we  make  our  books  and  pictures  and  music  say 
what  we  please.  We  use  our  art  to  gain  our  own  vain 
ends  instead  of  being  driven  by  our  art  to  find  ade- 
quate expression  for  some  great  truth  that  demands 
through  us  a  hearing.  You  have  said  it  all,  my 
friend — you  have  summed  up  the  whole  situation  in 
the  present-day  world  of  creative  art — these  people 
are  satisfied.  You  have  given  them  what  they  want, 
prostituting  your  art  to  do  it.  That's  what  I  have 


160 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

been  doing  all  these  years — giving  people  what  they 
want.  For  a  price,  we  cater  to  them — even  as  their 
tailors,  and  milliners,  and  barbers.  And  never  again 
will  the  world  have  a  truly  great  art  or  literature 
until  men  like  us — in  the  divine  selfishness  of  their 
calling — demand,  first  and  last,  that  they,  themselves, 
be  satisfied  by  the  work  of  their  hands." 

Going  to  the  easel,  he  rudely  jerked  aside  the  cur- 
tain. Involuntarily,  the  painter  went  to  stand  by  his 
side  before  the  picture. 

"Look  at  it !"  cried  the  novelist.  "Look  at  it  in 
the  light  of  your  own  genius !  Don't  you  see  its 
power  ?  Doesn't  it  tell  you  what  you  could  do,  if  you 
would?  If  you  couldn't  paint  a  picture,  or  if  you 
couldn't  feel  a  picture  to  be  painted,  it  wouldn't  mat- 
ter. I'd  let  you  ride  to  hell  on  your  own  palette,  and 
be  damned  to  you.  But  this  thing  shows  a  power 
that  the  world  can  ill  afford  to  lose.  It  is  so  bad  be- 
cause it  is  so  good.  Come  here !"  he  drew  his  friend 
to  the  big  window,  and  pointed  to  the  mountains. 
"There  is  an  art  like  those  mountains,  my  boy — 
lonely,  apart  from  the  world;  remotely  above  the 
squalid  ambitions  of  men;  Godlike  in  its  calm 
strength  and  peace — an  art  to  which  men  may  look 
for  inspiration  and  courage  and  hope.  And  there  is 
an  art  that  is  like  Fairlands — petty  and  shallow  and 
mean — with  only  the  fictitious  value  that  its  devotees 
assume,  but  never,  actually,  realize.  Listen,  Aaron, 
don't  continue  to  misread  your  mother's  letters.  Don't 
misunderstand  her  as  thinking  that  the  place  she  cov- 
eted for  you  is  a  place  within  the  power  of  these  peo- 


161 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

pie  to  give.  Come  with  me  into  the  mountains, 
yonder.  Come,  and  let  us  see  if,  in  those  hills  of  God, 
you  cannot  find  yourself." 

When  Conrad  Lagrange  finished,  the  artist  stood, 
for  a  little,  without  reply — irresolute,  before  his  pic- 
ture— the  check  in  his  hand.  At  last,  still  without 
speaking,  he  went  hack  to  the  table,  where  he  wrote 
briefly  his  reply  to  Mr.  Taine.  When  he  had  finished, 
he  handed  his  letter  to  the  older  man,  who  read : 
Dear  Sir: 

In  reply  to  yours  of  the  13th,  inst.,  enclosing  your 
check  in  payment  for  the  portrait  of  Mrs.  Taine;  I 
appreciate  your  generosity,  but  cannot,  now,  accept 
it. 

I  find,  upon  further  consideration,  that  the  por- 
trait does  not  fully  satisfy  me.  I  shall,  therefore, 
keep  the  canvas  until  I  can,  with  the  consent  of  my 
own  mind,  put  my  signature  upon  it. 

Herewith,  I  am  returning  your  check;  for,  of 
course,  I  cannot  accept  payment  for  an  unfinished 
work. 

In  a  day  or  two,  Mr.  Lagrange  and  I  will  start 
to  the  mountains,  for  an  outing.  Trusting  that  you 
and  your  family  will  enjoy  the  season  at  Lake  Si- 
lence, I  am,  with  kind  regards, 

Yours  sincerely, 

Aaron  King. 


That  evening,  the  two  men  talked  over  their  pro- 
posed trip,  and  laid  their  plans  to  start  without  de- 
lay. As  Conrad  Lagrange  put  it — they  would  lose 

162 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

themselves  in  the  hills;  with  no  definite  destination 
in  view ;  and  no  set  date  for  their  return.  Also,  he 
stipulated  that  they  should  travel  light — with  only 
a  pack  burro  to  carry  their  supplies — and  that  they 
should  avoid  the  haunts  of  the  summer  resorters,  and 
keep  to  the  more  unfrequented  trails.  The  novelist's 
acquaintance  with  the  country  into  which  they  would 
go,  and  his  experience  in  woodcraft — gained  upon 
many  like  expeditions  in  the  lonely  wilds  he  loved — 
would  make  a  guide  unnecessary.  It  would  be  a  new 
experience  for  Aaron  King;  and,  as  the  novelist 
talked,  he  found  himself  eager  as  a  schoolboy  for  the 
trip ;  while  the  distant  mountains,  themselves,  seemed 
to  call  him — inviting  him  to  learn  the  secret  of  their 
calm  strength  and  the  spirit  of  their  lofty  peace.  The 
following  day,  they  would  spend  in  town ;  purchasing 
an  outfit  of  the  necessary  equipment  and  supplies, 
securing  a  burro,  and  attending  to  numerous  odds  and 
ends  of  business  preparatory  to  their  indefinite  ab- 
sence. 

It  so  happened,  the  next  day,  that  Yee  Kee, — who 
was  to  care  for  the  place  during  their  weeks  of  ab- 
sence,— also,  had  matters  of  importance  to  himself, 
that  demanded  his  attention  in  town.  When  his  mas- 
ters informed  him  that  they  would  not  be  home  for 
lunch,  he  took  advantage  of  the  opportunity  and 
asked  for  the  day. 

Thus  it  came  about  that  Conrad  Lagrange — in  the 
spirit  of  a  boy  bent  upon  some  secret  adventure — 
stole  out  into  the  rose  garden,  that  morning,  to  leave 
the  promised  letter  and  key  at  the  little  gate  in  the 
corner  of  the  Ragged  Robin  hedge. 

163 


CHAPTEK  XIII 
MYRA  WILLARD'S  CHALLENGE 

INCE  her  meeting  with  Conrad  Lagrange 
in  the  rose  garden,  Sibyl  Andres  had 
looked,  every  day,  for  that  promised  letter. 
She  found  it  early  in  the  afternoon.  It 
was  a  quaint  letter — written  in  the  spirit 
of  their  meeting — telling  her  the  probable 
time  of  her  neighbor's  return ;  warning  her,  in  fear  of 
some  fanciful  horror,  to  beware  of  the  picture  on  the 
easel;  and  wishing  her  joy  of  the  adventure.  With 
the  note,  was  a  key. 

A  few  minutes  later,  the  girl  unlocked  the  door  of 
the  studio,  and  entered  the  building  that  had  once 
been  so  familiar  to  her,  but  was  now,  in  its  interior, 
so  transformed.  Slowly,  she  pushed  the  door  to,  be- 
hind her.  As  though  half  frightened  at  her  own  dar- 
ing, she  stood  quite  still,  looking  about.  In  the  at- 
mosphere of  that  somewhat  richly  furnished  apart- 
ment; poised  timidly  as  if  for  ready  flight;  she 
seemed,  indeed,  the  spirit  that  the  novelist — in 
playful  fancy — insisted  that  she  was.  Her  cheeks 
were  glowing  with  color;  her  eyes  were  bright  with 
the  excitement  of  her  innocent  adventure,  and  with 
her  genuine  admiration  and  appreciation  of  the  beau- 
tiful room. 

Presently, — growing   bolder, — she   began    moving 

164 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

about  the  studio — light-footed  and  graceful  as  a  wild 
thing  from  her  own  mountain  home,  and,  indeed,  with 
much  the  air  of  a  gentle  creature  of  the  woods  that 
had  strayed  into  the  haunts  of  men.  Intensely  inter- 
ested in  the  things  she  found,  she  gradually  forgot  her 
timidity,  and  gave  herself  to  the  enjoyment  of  her 
surroundings,  with  the  freedom  and  abandon  of  a 
child.  From  picture  to  picture,  she  went,  with  wide, 
eager  eyes.  She  turned  over  the  sketches  in  the  big 
portfolios  that  were  so  invitingly  open ;  looked  with 
awe  upon  the  brushes  stuck  in  the  big  Chinese  jar — 
upon  the  palettes,  and  at  the  tubes  of  color;  flitting 
to  the  window  that  looked  out  upon  her  garden,  and 
back  to  the  great,  north  light  with  its  view  of  the  dis- 
tant mountains ;  and  again  and  again,  paused  to  stand 
with  her  hands  clasped  behind  her,  in  front  of  the  big 
easel  with  its  canvas  hidden  under  the  velvet  curtain. 
Then  she  must  try  the  chairs,  the  oriental  couch,  and 
even  the  stool — where  she  had  seen  the  artist  sitting, 
sometimes,  at  his  work,  when  she  had  watched  him 
from  the  arbor ;  and  last — in  a  pretty  make-believe — 
she  tried  the  seat  on  the  model  throne,  as  though  pos- 
ing, herself,  for  her  portrait. 

Suddenly,  with  a  startled  cry,  she  sprang  to  her 
feet ;  then  shrank  back,  white  and  trembling — her  big 
eyes  fixed  with  pleading  fear  upon  the  man  who 
stood  in  the  open  doorway,  regarding  her  with  a 
curious,  triumphant  smile.  It  was  James  Rutlidge. 

Sibyl,  occupied  with  her  childlike  delight,  had 
failed  to  hear  the  automobile  when  it  stopped  in  front 
of  the  house.  Finding  no  one  in  the  house  the  man 
had  gone  on  to  the  studio,  where — with  the  assurance 

165 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

of  an  intimate  acquaintance — he  had  pushed  open  the 
door  that  was  standing  ajar. 

At  the  girl's  frightened  manner,  the  man  laughed. 
Closing  the  door,  he  said,  with  an  insinuating  sneer, 
"You  were  not  expecting  me,  it  seems." 

His  words  aroused  Sibyl  from  her  momentary 
weakness.  Rising,  she  said  calmly,  "I  was  not  ex- 
pecting any  one,  Mr.  Rutlidge." 

Again  he  laughed — with  unpleasant  meaning. 
"You  certainly  look  to  be  very  much  at  home."  He 
moved  confidently  to  the  easel  stool  and,  seating  him- 
self, continued  with  a  leering  smile,  "What's  the 
matter  with  my  taking  the  artist's  place  for  a  little 
while — at  least,  until  he  comes  ?" 

The  girl  was  too  innocent  to  understand  his  as- 
sumption, but  her  pure  mind  could  not  fail  to  sense 
the  evil  in  his  words. 

"I  had  permission  to  come  here  this  afternoon," 
she  said — her  voice  trembling  a  little  with  the  fear 
that  she  did  not  understand.  "Won't  you  go,  please  ? 
Neither  Mr.  King  nor  Mr.  Lagrange  are  at  home." 

"I  do  not  doubt  your  having  permission  to  come 
here,"  he  returned,  with  meaning  stress  upon  the 
word,  "permission".  "I  see  you  even  carry  a  key  to 
this  really  delightful  room."  He  motioned  with  his 
head  toward  the  door  where  he  had  seen  the  key  in 
the  lock,  as  she  had  left  it. 

At  this,  she  grasped  a  hint  of  the  man's  thought 
and,  for  an  instant,  drew  back  in  shame.  Then,  sud- 
denly, with  a  burst  of  indignant  anger,  she  took  a 
step  toward  him,  demanding  clearly ;  "Are  you  saying 


166 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

that  I  am  in  the  habit  of  coming  here  to  meet  Mr. 
King?" 

He  laughed  mockingly.  "Really,  my  dear,  no  one, 
seeing  you,  now,  could  blame  the  man  for  giving  you 
a  key  to  this  place  where  he  is  popularly  supposed  to 
be  undisturbed.  Mr.  King  is  neither  such  a  virtuous 
saint,  nor  so  engrossed  in  his  art,  as  to  resent  the  com- 
panionship of  such  a  vision  of  loveliness — simply  be- 
cause it  comes  in  the  form  of  good  flesh  and  blood. 
Why  be  angry  with  me  ?" 

Her  cheeks  were  crimson  as  she  said,  again,  "Will 
you  go  ?" 

"Not  until  you  have  settled  the  terms  of  peace," 
he  answered  with  that  leering  smile.  "Fortune  has 
favored  me,  this  afternoon,  and  I  mean  to  profit  by 
it" 

For  an  instant,  she  looked  at  him — frightened  and 
dismayed.  Suddenly,  with  the  flash-like  quickness 
that  was  a  part  of  her  physical  inheritance  from  her 
mountain  life,  she  darted  past  him ;  eluding  his  effort 
to  detain  her — and  was  out  of  the  building. 

With  an  oath,  the  man,  acting  upon  the  impulse  of 
the  moment,  ran  after  her.  Outside  the  door  of  the 
studio,  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  white  dress  as  she 
disappeared  into  the  rose  garden.  In  the  garden,  he 
saw  her  as  she  slipped  through  the  little  gate  in  the 
far  corner  of  the  hedge,  into  the  orange  grove.  Reck- 
lessly, he  followed.  Among  the  trees,  he  glimpsed, 
again,  the  white  flash  of  her  skirts,  and  dashed  for- 
ward. At  the  farther  edge  of  the  grove  that  walled  in 
the  little  yard  where  Sibyl  lived,  he  saw  her  standing 


167 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

by  the  kitchen  door.  But  between  the  girl  and  that 
last  row  of  close-set  trees,  waiting  his  coming,  stood 
the  woman  with  the  disfigured  face. 

Rutlidge  paused — angry  with  himself  for  so  fool- 
ishly yielding  to  the  impulse  of  his  passion. 

Myra  Willard  went  toward  him  fearlessly — her 
fine  eyes  blazing  with  righteous  indignation.  "What 
are  you  trying  to  do,  James  Rutlidge  ?"  she  de- 
manded— and  her  words  were  bold  and  clear. 

The  man  was  silent. 

"You  are  evidently  a  worthy  son  of  your  father," 
the  woman  continued — every  clear-cut  word  biting 
into  his  consciousness  with  stinging  scorn.  "He,  in 
his  day,  did  all  he  knew  to  turn  this  world  into  a  hell 
for  those  who  were  unfortunate  enough  to  please  his 
vile  fancy.  You,  I  see,  are  following  faithfully  his 
footsteps.  I  know  you,  and  the  creed  of  your  kind — 
as  I  knew  your  father  before  you.  No  girl  of  inno- 
cent beauty  is  safe  from  you.  Your  unclean  mind  is 
as  incapable  of  believing  in  virtue,  as  you  are  help- 
less in  the  grip  of  your  own  insane  lust." 

The  man  was  stung  to  fury  by  her  cutting  words. 
"Take  your  ugly  face  out  of  my  sight,"  he  said 
brutally. 

Fearlessly,  she  drew  a  step  nearer.  "It  is  because 
I  am  a  woman  that  I  have  this  ugly  face,  James  Rut- 
lidge." She  touched  her  disfigured  cheek — "These 
scars  are  the  marks  of  the  beast  that  rules  you,  sir, 
body  and  soul.  Leave  this  place,  or,  as  there  is  a  God, 
I'll  tell  a  tale  that  will  forbid  you  ever  showing  your 
own  evil  countenance  in  public,  again." 

Something  in  her  eyes  and  in  her  manner,  as  she 

168 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

spoke,  caused  the  man — beside  himself  with  rage,  as 
he  was — to  draw  back.  Some  mysterious  force  that 
made  itself  felt  in  her  bold  words  told  him  that  hers 
was  no  idle  threat.  A  moment  they  stood  face  to  face, 
in  the  edge  of  the  shadowy  orange  grove — the  man  of 
the  world,  prominent  in  circles  of  art  and  culture; 
and  the  woman  whose  natural  loveliness  was  so  dis- 
torted into  a  hideous  mask  of  ugliness.  With  a  short, 
derisive  laugh,  James  Rutlidge  turned  and  walked 
away. 


Aaron  King  and  Conrad  Lagrange  were  returning 
from  town.  As  they  neared  their  home,  they  saw  one 
of  the  Taine  automobiles  in  front  of  the  house. 
"Company,"  said  the  artist  with  a  smile — thinking 
of  his  letter  to  the  millionaire. 

"It's  Rutlidge,"  said  the  novelist — noting  the 
absence  of  the  chauffeur. 

They  were  turning  in  at  the  entrance,  when  Czar — 
who  had  dashed  ahead  as  if  to  investigate — halted, 
suddenly,  with  a  low  growl  of  disapproval. 

"Huh!"  ejaculated  Conrad  Lagrange,  with  his 
twisted  grin.  "It's  Senior  'Sensual'  all  right.  Look 
at  Czar ;  he  knows  the  beast  is  around.  Go  fetch  him, 
Czar." 

With  an  angry  bark,  the  dog  disappeared  around 
the  corner  of  the  porch.  The  two  men,  following, 
were  met  by  Rutlidge  who  had  made  his  way  back 
through  the  grove  and  the  rose  garden  from  the  house 
next  door.  The  dog,  with  muttering  growls,  was 
sniffing  suspiciously  at  his  heels. 

169 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

"Czar,"  said  his  master,  suggestively.  With  a 
meaning  glance,  the  dog  reluctantly  ceased  his  em- 
barrassing attentions  and  went  to  see  if  everything 
was  all  right  about  the  premises. 

In  answer  to  their  greeting  and  the  quite  natural 
question  if  he  had  been  waiting  long,  Rutlidge  an- 
swered with  a  laugh.  "Oh,  no — I  have  been  amusing 
myself  by  prowling  around  your  place.  Snug  quar- 
ters you  have  here;  really,  I  never  quite  appreciated 
their  charm,  before." 

They  seated  themselves  on  the  porch.  Conrad  La- 
grange — thinking  of  Sibyl  Andres  and  that  letter 
which  he  had  left  on  the  gate — from  under  his  brows, 
watched  their  caller  closely ;  the  while  he  filled  with 
painstaking  care  his  brier  pipe. 

"We  like  it,"  returned  the  artist. 

"I  should  think  so — I'd  be  sorry  to  leave  it  if  I 
were  you.  Mr.  Taine  tells  me  you  are  going  to  the 
mountains." 

"We're  not  giving  up  this  place,  though,"  replied 
Aaron  King.  "Yee  Kee  stays  to  take  care  of  things 
until  our  return." 

"Oh,  I  see.  I  generally  go  into  the  mountains,  my- 
self, for  a  little  hunt  when  the  deer  season  opens.  It 
may  be  that  I  will  run  across  you  somewhere.  By  the 
way — you  haven't  met  your  musical  neighbor  yet, 
have  you  ?" 

The  novelist  gave  particular  attention  to  his  pipe 
which  did  not  seem  to  be  behaving  properly. 

The  artist  answered  shortly,  "No." 

"I'd  certainly  make  her  acquaintance,  if  I  were 
you,"  said  Rutlidge,  with  his  suggestive  smile.  "She 

170 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

is  a  dream.  A  delightful  little  retreat — that  studio 
of  yours." 

The  painter,  puzzled  by  the  man's  words  and  by 
his  insinuating  air,  returned  coldly,  "It  does  very 
well  for  a  work-shop." 

The  other  laughed  meaningly;  "Yes,  oh  yes — a 
great  little  work-shop.  I  suppose  you — ah — do  not 
fear  to  trust  your  art  treasures  to  the  Chinaman,  dur- 
ing your  absence  ?" 

Conrad  Lagrange — certain,  now,  that  the  man  had 
seen  Sibyl  Andres  either  entering  or  leaving  the 
studio — said  abruptly,  "You  need  give  yourself  no 
concern  for  Mr.  King's  studio,  Rutlidge.  I  can  as- 
sure you  that  the  treasures  there  will  be  well  pro- 
tected." 

Jaines  Rutlidge  understood  the  warning  conveyed 
in  the  novelist's  words  that,  to  Aaron  King,  revealed 
nothing. 

"Really,"  said  the  painter  to  their  caller,  "you  are 
not  uneasy  for  the  safety  of  Mrs.  Taine's  portrait,  are 
you,  old  man  ?  If  you  are,  of  course — " 

"Damn  Mrs.  Taine's  portrait!"  ejaculated  the 
man,  rising  hurriedly.  "You  know  what  I  mean. 
It's  all  right,  of  course.  I  must  be  going.  Hope  you 
have  a  good  outing  and  come  back  to  find  all  your  art 
treasures  safe."  He  laughed  coarsely,  as  he  went 
down  the  walk. 

When  the  automobile  was  gone,  the  artist  turned  to 
his  friend.  "Now  what  in  thunder  did  he  mean  by 
that?  What's  the  matter  with  him?  Do  you  sup- 
pose they  imagine  that  there  is  anything  wrong  be- 
cause I  wouldn't  turn  over  the  picture  ?" 

171 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOKLD 

"He  is  an  unclean  beast,  Aaron,"  the  novelist  an- 
swered shortly.  "His  father  was  the  worst  I  ever 
knew,  and  he's  like  him.  Forget  him.  Here  comes 
the  delivery  boy  with  our  stuff.  Let's  overhaul  the 
outfit.  I  hope  they'll  get  here  with  that  burro,  be- 
fore dark.  Where'll  we  put  him,  in  the  studio,  heh  ?" 

"Look  here," — said  the  artist  a  few  minutes  later, 
returning  from  a  visit  to  the  studio  for  something, — 
"this  is  what  was  the  matter  with  Rutlidge.  And 
you  did  it,  old  man.  This  is  your  key." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  the  other  in  con- 
fusion, taking  the  key. 

"Why,  I  found  the  studio  door  wide  open,  with 
your  key  in  the  lock.  You  must  have  been  out  there, 
just  before  we  left  this  morning,  and  forgot  to  shut 
the  door.  Rutlidge  probably  noticed  it  when  he  was 
prowling  about  the  place,  and  was  trying  to  roast  me 
for  my  carelessness." 

Conrad  Lagrange  stared  stupidly  at  the  key  in  his 
hand.  "Well  I  am  damned,"  he  muttered.  Then 
added,  in  savage  and — as  it  seemed  to  the  artist — ex- 
aggerated wrath,  "I'm  a  stupid,  blundering,  irre- 
sponsible, old  fool."  Nor  was  he  consoled  when  the 
painter  innocently  assured  him  that  no  harm  had  re- 
sulted from  his  carelessness. 

That  night,  as  the  two  men  sat  on  the  porch,  watch- 
ing the  last  of  the  light  on  the  mountain  tops,  they 
heard  again  the  cry  of  fear  and  pain  that  came  from 
the  little  house  hidden  in  the  depths  of  the  orange 
grove.  Wonderingly  they  listened.  Once  more  it 
came — filled  with  shuddering  terror. 


172 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

When  the  sound  was  not  repeated,  Conrad  La- 
grange  thoughtfully  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe. 
"Poor  soul,"  he  said.  "Those  scars  did  more  than 
disfigure  her  beautiful  face.  I'll  wager  there's  a  sad 
story  there,  Aaron,  It's  strange  how  I  am  haunted 
by  the  impression  that  I  ought  to  know  her.  But  I 
can't  make  it  come  clear.  Heigho," — he  added  a  mo- 
ment later  as  if  to  free  his  mind  from  unpleasant 
thoughts, — "I'll  be  glad  when  we  are  safely  up  in  the 
hills  yonder.  Do  you  know,  old  man,  I  feel  as  though 
we're  getting  away  just  in  the  nick  of  time.  My  back 
hair  and  the  pricking  of  my  thumbs  warn  me  that 
your  dearly  beloved  spooks  are  combining  to  put  up 
some  sort  of  a  spooking  job  on  us.  I  hope  Yee  Kee 
has  a  plentiful  supply  of  joss-sticks  to  stand  'em  off, 
if  they  get  too  busy  while  we  are  gone." 

Aaron  King  laughed  quietly  in  the  dusk,  as  he  re- 
turned, "And  I  have  a  presentiment  that  those 
precious  members  of  our  household  are  preparing  to 
accompany  us  to  the  hills.  I  feel  in  my  bones  that 
something  is  going  to  happen  up  there" — he  pointed 
to  the  distant  mountains,  then  added — "to  me,  at 
least.  I  feel  as  though  I  were  about  to  bid  myself 
good-by — if  you  know  what  I  mean.  I  hope  that 
donkey  of  ours  isn't  a  psychic  donkey,  or,  if  he  is, 
that  he'll  listen  to  reason  and  be  content  with  his  es- 
corts of  flesh  and  blood." 

As  he  finished  speaking,  the  quiet  of  the  evening 
was  broken  by  a  lusty,  "Hee-haw,  hee-haw,"  in  front 
of  the  house. 

"There,  I  told  you  so!"  ejaculated  the  painter. 


178 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

Laughing,  the  two  men  followed  Czar  down  the 
walk,  in  the  dark,  to  receive  the  shaggy,  long-eared 
companion  for  their  wanderings. 

As  many  a  man  has  done — Aaron  King  had 
spoken,  in  jest,  more  truth  than  he  knew. 


174 


CHAPTER  XIV 
IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

1ST  the  gray  of  the  early  morning,  hours  be- 
fore the  dwellers  on  Fairlands  Heights 
thought  of  leaving  their  beds,  Aaron  King 
and  Conrad  Lagrange  made  ready  for 
their  going. 

The  burro,  Croesus — so  named  by  the 
novelist  because,  as  the  famous  writer  explained, 
"that  ancient  multi-millionaire,  you  know,  really  was 
an  ass" — was  to  be  entrusted  with  all  the  available 
worldly  possessions  of  the  little  party.  An  arrange- 
ment— the  more  experienced  man  carefully  pointed 
out — that,  considering  the  chief  characteristics  of 
Croesus,  was  quite  in  accord  with  the  customs  of  mod- 
ern pilgrimages.  Conrad  Lagrange,  himself,  skill- 
fully fixed  the  pack  in  place — adjusting  the  saddle 
with  careful  hand;  accurately  dividing  the  weight, 
with  the  blankets  on  top,  and,  over  all,  the  canvas  tar- 
paulin, folded  the  proper  size  and  neatly  tucked  in 
around  the  ends ;  and  finally  securing  the  whole  with 
the,  to  the  uninitiated,  intricate  and  complicated  dia- 
mond hitch.  The  order  of  their  march,  also,  would 
place  Croesus  first;  which  position — the  novelist, 
again,  gravely  explained,  as  he  drew  the  cinches  tight 
— is  held  by  all  who  value  good  form,  to  be  the  don- 
key's proper  place  in  the  procession.  As  he  watched 

175 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

his  friend,  the  artist  felt  that,  indeed,  he  was  about 
to  go  far  from  the  ways  of  life  that  he  had  always 
known. 

When  all  was  ready,  the  two  men — dressed  in  flan- 
nels, corduroys,  and  high-laced,  mountain  boots — 
called  good-by  to  Yee  Kee,  respectfully  invited  Croe- 
sus to  proceed,  and  set  out — with  Czar,  the  fourth 
member  of  the  party,  flying  here  and  there  in  such  a 
whirlwind  of  good  spirits  that  not  a  shred  of  his  usual 
dignity  was  left.  The  sun  was  sti11.  below  the  moun- 
tain's crest,  though  the  higher  points  were  gilded  with 
its  light,  when  they  turned  their  backs  upon  the  city 
made  by  men,  and  set  their  faces  toward  the  hills  that 
bore  in  every  ridge  and  peak  and  cliff  and  crag  and 
canyon  the  signature  of  God. 

As  Conrad  Lagrange  said — they  might  have  hired 
a  wagon,  or  even  an  automobile,  to  take  them  and 
their  goods  to  some  mountain  ranch  where  they  would 
have  had  no  trouble  in  securing  a  burro  for  their  wan- 
derings. A  team  would  have  made  the  trip  by  noon. 
A  machine  would  have  set  them  down  in  Clear  Creek 
Canyon  before  the  sun  could  climb  high  enough  to 
look  over  the  canyon  walls.  "But  that" — explained 
the  novelist,  as  they  trudged  leisurely  along  between 
rows  of  palms  that  bordered  the  orange  groves  on 
either  side  of  their  road,  and  sensed  the  mystery  that 
marks  the  birth  of  a  new  day — "but  that  is  not  a 
proper  way  to  go  to  the  mountains. 

"The  mountains" — he  continued,  with  his  eyes 
upon  the  distant  heights — "are  not  seen  by  those  who 
would  visit  them  with  a  rattle  and  clatter  and  rush 
and  roar — as  one  would  visit  the  cities  of  men.  They 

176 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOKLD 

are  to  be  seen  only  by  those  who  have  the  grace  to  go 
quietly;  who  have  the  understanding  to  go  thought- 
fully; the  heart  to  go  lovingly;  and  the  spirit  to  go 
worshipfully.  They  are  to  be  approached,  not  in  the 
manner  of  one  going  to  a  horse-race,  or  a  circus,  but 
in  the  mood  of  one  about  to  enter  a  great  cathedral; 
or,  indeed,  of  one  seeking  admittance  to  the  very 
throne-room  of  God.  When  going  to  the  mountains, 
one  should  take  time  to  feel  them  drawing  near.  They 
are  never  intimate  with  those  who  hurry.  Mere  sight- 
seers seldom  see  much  of  anything.  If  possible," — 
insisted  the  speaker,  smiling  gravely  upon  his  com- 
panion,— "one  should  always  spend,  at  least,  a  full 
day  in  the  approach.  Before  entering  the  immediate 
presence  of  the  hills,  one  should  first  view  them  from 
a  distance,  seeing  them  from  base  to  peak — in  the 
glory  of  the  day's  beginning,  as  they  watch  the  world 
awake;  in  the  majesty  of  full  noon,  as  they  maintain 
their  calm  above  the  turmoil  of  the  day's  doing ;  and 
in  the  glory  of  the  sun's  departure,  as  it  lights  last 
their  crests  and  peaks.  And  then,  after  such  a  day, 
one  should  sleep,  one  night,  at  their  feet." 

The  artist  listened  with  delight,  as  he  always  did 
when  his  friend  spoke  in  those  rare  moods  that  re- 
vealed a  nature  so  unknown  to  the  world  that  had 
made  him  famous.  When  the  novelist  finished,  the 
young  man  said  gently,  "And  your  words,  my  friend, 
are  almost  a  direct  quotation  from  that  anonymous 
book  which  my  mother  so  loved." 

"Perhaps  they  are,  Aaron" —  admitted  Conrad  La- 
grange — "perhaps  they  are." 

So  it  was  that  they  spent  that  day — in  leisure  ap- 

177 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

proach — the  patient  Croesus,  with  his  burden,  always 
in  the  lead,  and  Czar,  like  a  merry  sprite,  play- 
ing here  and  there.  Several  times  they  stopped  to 
rest  heside  the  road,  while  provident  Croesus  gath- 
ered a  few  mouthfuls  of  grass  or  weeds.  Many  times 
they  halted  to  enjoy  the  scene  that  changed  with  every 
step. 

Their  road  led  always  upward,  with  a  gradual, 
easy  grade ;  and  by  noon  they  had  left  the  cultivated 
section  of  the  lower  valley  for  the  higher,  untilled 
lands.  The  dark,  glossy-green  of  the  orange  and  the 
lighter  shining  tints  of  the  lemon  groves,  with  the 
rich,  satiny-gray  tones  of  the  olive-trees,  were  re- 
placed now  by  the  softer  grays,  greens,  yellows,  and 
browns  of  the  chaparral.  The  air  was  no  longer 
heavy  with  the  perfume  of  roses  and  orange-blossoms, 
but  came  to  their  nostrils  laden  with  the  pungent 
odors  of  yerba  santa  and  greasewood  and  sage.  Look- 
ing back,  they  could  see  the  valley — marked  off  by 
its  roads  into  many  squares  of  green,  and  dotted  here 
and  there  by  small  towns  and  cities — stretching  away 
toward  the  western  ocean  until  it  was  lost  in  a  gray- 
blue  haze  out  of  which  the  distant  San  Gabriels,  be- 
yond Cajon  Pass,  lifted  into  the  clear  sky  above,  like 
the  shore-line  of  dreamland  rising  out  of  a  dream  sea. 
Before  them,  the  San  Bernardinos  drew  ever  nearer 
and  more  intimate — silently  inviting  them ;  patiently, 
with  a  world  old  patience,  bidding  them  come ;  in  the 
majestic  humbleness  of  their  lofty  spirit,  offering 
themselves  and  the  wealth  of  their  teaching. 

So  they  came,  in  the  late  afternoon,  to  that  spot 
where  the  road  for  the  first  time  crosses  the  alder  and 

178 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

cottonwood  bordered  stream  that,  before  it  reaches  the 
valley,  is  drawn  from  its  natural  course  by  the  irriga- 
tion flumes  and  pipes. 

The  sound  of  the  mountain  waters  leaping  down 
their  granite-bouldered  way  reached  the  men  while 
they  were  yet  some  distance.  Croesus  pointed  his 
long  ears  forward  in  burro  anticipation — his  ex- 
perience telling  him  that  the  day's  work  was  about  to 
end.  Czar  was  already  ranging  along  the  side  of  the 
creek — sending  a  colony  of  squirrels  scampering  to 
the  tree  tops,  and  a  bevy  of  quail  whirring  to  the 
chaparral  in  frightened  flight.  The  artist  greeted 
the  waters  with  a  schoolboy  shout  of  gladness.  Con- 
rad Lagrange,  with  the  smile  and  the  voice  of  a  man 
miraculously  recreated,  said  quietly,  "This  is  the 
place  where  we  stop  for  the  night." 

Their  camp  was  a  simple  matter.  Croesus  asked 
nothing  but  to  be  released  from  his  burden — being 
quite  capable  of  caring  for  himself.  A  wash  in  the 
clear,  cold  water  of  the  brook;  a  simple  meal,  pre- 
pared by  Conrad  Lagrange  over  a  small  fire  made  of 
sticks  gathered  by  the  artist;  their  tarpaulin  and 
blankets  spread  within  sound  of  the  music  of  the 
stream ;  a  watching  of  the  sun's  glorious  going  down ; 
a  quiet  pipe  in  the  hush  of  the  mysterious  twilight ;  a 
"good  night"  in  the  soft  darkness,  when  the  myriad 
stars  looked  down  upon  the  dull  red  glow  of  their 
camp-fire  embers;  with  the  guarding  spirit  of  the 
mighty  hills  to  give  them  peace — and  they  lay  down 
to  sleep  at  the  mountain's  feet. 

There  is  no  sleeping  late  in  the  morning  when  one 
sleeps  in  the  open,  under  the  stars.  After  breakfast, 

179 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

the  artist  received  another  lesson  in  packing,  and 
they  moved  on  toward  the  world  that  already  seemed 
to  dwarf  that  other  world  which  they  had  left,  by  one 
day's  walking,  so  far  below.  A  heavy  fog,  rolling  in 
from  the  ocean  in  the  night,  submerged  the  valley  in 
its  dull,  gray  depths — leaving  to  the  eye  no  view  but 
the  view  of  the  mountains  before  them,  and  forcing 
upon  the  artist's  mind  the  weird  impression  that  the 
life  he  had  always  known  was  a  fantastically  unreal 
dream. 

And  now, — as  they  approached, — the  frowning  en- 
trance of  Clear  Creek  Canyon  grew  more  and  more 
clearly  defined.  The  higher  peaks  appeared  to  draw 
back  and  hide  themselves  behind  the  foothills,  which 
— as  the  men  came  closer  under  their  immediate 
slopes  and  walls — seemed  to  grow  magically  in  height 
and  bulk.  A  little  before  noon,  they  were  in  the  rocky 
vestibule  of  the  canyon.  On  either  hand,  the  walls 
rose  almost  sheer,  while  their  road,  now,  was  but  a 
narrow  shelf  under  the  overhanging  cliffs,  below 
which  the  white  waters  of  the  stream — cold  from  the 
snows  so  far  above — tumbled  impetuously  over  the 
boulders  that  obstructed  their  way — filling  the  hall- 
like  gorge  with  tumultuous  melody.  Soon,  the  can- 
yon narrowed  to  less  than  a  stone's  throw  in  width. 
The  walls  grew  more  grim  and  forbidding  in  their 
rocky  nearness.  And  then  they  came  to  that  point 
where,  on  either  side,  great  cliffs,  projecting,  form  the 
massive,  rugged  portals  of  the  mountain's  gate. 

First  seen,  from  a  point  where  the  road  rounds  a 
jutting  corner  on  the  extreme  right,  the  projecting 
cliffs  ahead  appear  as  a  blank  wall  of  rock  that  for- 

180 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

bids  further  progress.  But,  as  the  men  moved  for- 
ward,— the  r<Dad  swinging  more  toward  the  center  of 
the  gorge, — the  cliffs  seemed  to  draw  apart,  and, 
through  the  way  thus  opened,  they  saw  the  great 
canyon  and  the  mountains  beyond.  It  was  as  though 
a  mighty,  invisible  hand  rolled  silently  back  those 
awful  doors  to  give  them  entrance. 

Abruptly,  upon  the  inner  side  of  the  narrow  pas- 
sage, the  canyon  widens  to  many  times  the  width  of 
the  outer  vestibule;  and  the  road,  crossing  the  creek, 
curves  to  the  left ;  so  that,  looking  back  as  they  went, 
the  two  men  saw  the  mighty  doors  closing  again,  be- 
hind them — as  they  had  opened  to  let  them  in.  It 
was  as  though  that  spirit  sentinel,  guarding  the  treas- 
ures of  the  hills,  had  jealously  barred  the  way,  that 
no  one  else  from  the  world  of  men  might  follow. 

Aaron  King  stopped.  Drawing  a  deep  breath,  and 
removing  his  hat,  he  turned  his  face  from  that  moun- 
tain wall,  upward  to  th'e  encircling  pine-fringed 
ridges  and  towering  peaks.  He  had,  indeed,  come  far 
from  the  world  that  he  had  always  known. 

Conrad  Lagrange,  smiling,  watched  his  friend,  but 
spoke  no  word. 

Clear  Creek  Canyon  is  a  deep,  narrow  valley,  some 
fifteen,  miles  in  length,  and  approaching  a  mile  in  its 
greatest  width ;  lying  between  the  main  range  of  the 
San  Bernardinos  and  the  lower  ridge  of  the  Galenas. 
The  lower  end  of  the  canyon  is  shut  in  by  the  sheer 
cliff  walls,  and  by  the  rugged  portals  of  the  narrow 
entrance;  the  upper  end  is  formed  by  the  dividing 
ridge  that  separates  the  Clear  Creek  from  the  Cold 
Water  country  which  opens  out  onto  the  Colorado 

181 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

Desert  below  San  Gorgonio  Pass  and  the  peaks  of 
the  San  Jacintos.  Perhaps  two  miles  above  the  en- 
trance, the  canyon  widens  to  its  greatest  width ;  and 
in  this  portion  of  the  little  valley, — which  extends 
some  five  miles  to  where  the  walls  again  draw  close, — 
located  on  the  benches  above  the  boulder-strewn  wash 
of  Clear  Creek,  are  the  homes  of  several  mountain 
ranchers,  and  the  Government  Forest  Ranger  Station. 

At  the  Ranger  Station,  they  stopped — Conrad  La- 
grange  wishing  to  greet  the  mountaineer  official, 
whom  he  had  learned  to  know  on  his  former  trip. 
But  the  Ranger  was  away  somewhere,  riding  his 
lonely  trails,  and  they  did  not  tarry. 

Just  above  the  Station,  they  left  the  main  road  to 
follow  the  way  that  leads  to  the  Morton  Ranch  in  the 
mouth  of  Alder  Canyon — a  small  side  canyon  leading 
steeply  up  to  a  low  gap  in  the  main  range.  Beyond 
Morton's,  there  is  only  a  narrow  trail.  Three  hun- 
dred yards  above  the  ranch  corral,  where  the  road 
ends  and  the  trail  begins,  the  buildings  of  the  moun- 
taineer's home  were  lost  to  view.  Except  for  the  nar- 
row, winding  path  that  they  must  follow  single  file, 
there  was  no  sign  of  human  life. 

For  three  weeks,  they  knew  no  roads  other  than 
those  lonely,  mountain  trails.  At  times,  they  walked 
under  dark  pines  where  the  ground  was  thickly  car- 
peted with  the  dead,  brown  needles  and  the  air  was 
redolent  with  the  odor  of  the  majestic  trees ;  or  made 
their  camps  at  night,  feeding  their  blazing  fires  with 
the  pitchy  knots  and  cones.  At  other  times,  they 
found  their  way  through  thickets  of  manzanita  and 
buckthorn,  along  the  mountain's  flank;  or,  winding 

182 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

zigzag  down  some  narrow  canyon  wall,  made  them- 
selves at  home  under  the  slender,  small-trunked 
alders ;  and  added  to  the  stores  that  Croesus  packed, 
many  a  lusty  trout  from  the  tumbling,  icy  torrent. 
Again,  high  up  on  some  wind-swept  granite  ridge  or 
peak,  where  the  pines  were  twisted  and  battered  and 
torn  by  the  warring  elements,  they  looked  far  down 
upon  the  rolling  sea  of  clouds  that  hid  the  world  be- 
low ;  or,  in  the  shelter  of  some  mighty  cliff,  built  their 
fires ;  and,  when  the  night  was  clear,  saw,  miles  away 
and  below,  the  thousands  of  twinkling  star-like  lights 
of  the  world  they  had  left  behind.  Or,  again,  they 
halted  in  some  forest  and  hill  encircled  glen;  where 
the  lush  grass  in  the  cienaga  grew  almost  as  high  as 
Croesus'  back,  and  the  lilies  even  higher ;  and  where, 
through  the  dark  green  brakes,  the  timid  deer  come 
down  to  drink  at  the  beginning  of  some  mountain 
stream.  At  last,  their  wanderings  carried  them  close 
under  the  snowy  heights  of  San  Gorgonio — the  lofti- 
est of  all  the  peaks.  That  night,  they  camped  at  tim- 
ber-line; and  in  the  morning, — leaving  Croesus  and 
the  outfit,  while  it  was  still  dark, — made  their  way  to 
the  top,  in  time  to  see  the  sun  come  up  from  under 
the  edge  of  the  world. 

So  they  were  received  into  the  inner  life  of  the 
mountains ;  so  the  spirit  that  dwells  in  that  unmarred 
world  whispered  to  them  the  secrets  of  its  enduring 
strength  and  lofty  peace. 

From  San  Gorgonio,  they  followed  the  trail  that 
leads  down  to  upper  Clear  Creek — halting,  one  night, 
at  Burnt  Pine  Camp  on  Laurel  Creek,  above  the  falls. 
Then — leaving  the  Laurel  trail — they  climbed  over 

183 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

a  spur  of  the  main  range,  and  so  down  the  steep  wall 
of  the  gorge  to  Lone  Cabin  on  Fern  Creek.  The  next 
day,  they  made  their  way  on  down  to  the  floor  of  the 
main  canyon — five  miles  above  the  point  where  they 
had  left  it  at  the  beginning  of  their  wanderings. 

Crossing  the  canyon  at  the  Clear  Creek  Power 
Company's  intake,  they  took  the  company  trail  that 
follows  the  pipe-line  along  the  southern  wall.  From 
the  headwork  to  the  reservoir  two  thousand  feet  above 
the  power-house  at  the  mouth  of  Clear  Creek  Canyon, 
this  trail  is  cut  in  the  steep  side  of  the  Galena  range — 
overhanging  the  narrow  valley  below — nine  beautiful 
miles  of  it.  At  Oak  Knoll, — where  a  Government 
trail  for  the  Forest  Ranger  zigzags  down  from  the 
pipe-line  to  the  wagon  road  below, — they  halted. 

Conrad  Lagrange  explained  that  there  were  three 
ways  back  to  the  world  they  had  left,  nearly  a  month 
before — the  pipe-line  trail  to  the  reservoir  and  so 
down  to  the  power-house  and  the  Fairlands  road ;  the 
Government  trail  from  the  pipe-line,  over  the  Ga- 
lenas, to  the  valley  on  the  other  side;  or,  the  Oak 
Knoll  trail  down  to  Clear  Creek  and  out  through  the 
canyon  gates — the  way  they  had  come. 

"But,"  objected  Aaron  King,  lazily, — from  where 
he  lay  under  a  live-oak  on  the  mountainside,  a  few 
feet  above  the  trail, — "either  route  presupposes  our 
wish  to  return  to  Fairlands." 

The  novelist  laughed.  "Listen  to  him,  Czar," — 
he  said  to  the  dog  lying  at  his  feet, — "listen  to  that 
painter-man.  He  doesn't  want  to  go  back  to  Fair- 
lands  any  more  than  we  do,  does  he  ?" 

Rising,  Czar  looked  at  his  master  a  moment,  with 

184 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOKLD 

slow  waving  tail,  then  turned  inquiringly  toward  the 
artist. 

"Well,"  said  the  young  man,  "what  about  it,  old 
boy  ?  Which  trail  shall  we  take  ?  Or  shall  we  take 
any  of  them  ?" 

With  a  prodigious  yawn, — as  though  to  indicate 
that  he  wearied  of  their  foolish  indecision, — Czar 
turned,  with  a  low  "woof,"  toward  the  fourth  mem- 
ber of  the  company,  who  was  browsing  along  the  edge 
of  the  trail.  Whenever  Czar  was  in  doubt  as  to  the 
wants  of  his  human  companions  he  always  barked  at 
the  burro. 

"He  says,  'ask  Croesus'/'  commented  the  artist. 

"Good !"  cried  the  older  man,  with  another  laugh. 
"Let's  put  it  up  to  the  financier  and  let  him  choose." 

"Wait," — said  the  artist,  as  the  other  turned  to- 
ward the  burro, — "don't  be  hasty — the  occasion  calls 
for  solemn  meditation  and  lofty  discourse." 

"Your  pardon," —  returned  the  novelist, — "'tis  so. 
I  will  orate."  Carefully  selecting  a  pebble  in  readi- 
ness to  emphasize  his  remarks,  he  addressed  the 
shaggy  arbiter  of  their  fate.  "Sir  Croesus,  thy  pack 
is  lighter  by  many  meals  than  when  first  thou  didst 
set  out  from  that  land  where  we  did  rescue  thee  from 
the  hands  of  thy  tormenting  trader ;  but  thy  responsi- 
bilities are  weightier,  many  fold.  Upon  the  wisdom 
of  thy  choice,  now,  great  issue  rests.  Thou  hast  thy 
chance,  O  illustrious  ass,  to  recompense  the  world, 
this  day,  for  the  many  evils  wrought  by  thy  odious  an- 
cestor and  by  all  his  long-eared  kin.  Choose,  now,  the 
way  thy  benefactors'  feet  shall  go;  and  see  to  it, 
Croesus,  that  thou  dost  choose  wisely ;  or,  by  thy  ears, 

185 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOELD 

we'll  flay  thy  woolly  hide  and  hang  it  on  the  moun- 
tainside— a  warning  to  thy  kind." 

The  well-thrown  pebble  struck  that  part  of  the 
burro's  anatomy  at  which  it  was  aimed;  the  dog 
barked;  and  Croesus — with  an  indignant  jerk  of  his 
head,  and  a  flirt  of  his  tail — started  forward.  At  the> 
fork  of  the  trail,  he  paused.  The  two  men  waited 
with  breathless  interest.  With  an  air  of  accepting  the 
responsibility  placed  upon  him,  the  burro  whirled 
and  trotted  down  the  narrow  path  that  led  to  the  floor 
of  the  canyon  below.  Laughing,  the  men  followed — 
but  far  enough  in  the  rear  to  permit  their  leader  to 
choose  his  own  way  when  they  should  reach  the  wagon 
road  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain  wall.  Without  an  in- 
stant's hesitation,  Croesus  turned  down  the  road — 
quickening  his  pace,  almost,  into  a  trot. 

"By  George!"  ejaculated  the  novelist,  "he  acts  like 
he  knew  where  he  was  going." 

"He's  taking  you  at  your  word,"  returned  the  ar- 
tist. "Look  at  him  go!  Evidently,  he's  still  under 
the  inspiration  of  your  oratory." 

The  burro  had  broken  into  a  ridiculous,  little  gal- 
lop that  caused  the  frying-pan  and  coffee-pot,  lashed 
on  the  outside  of  the  pack,  to  rattle  merrily.  Splash- 
ing through  the  creek,  he  disappeared  in  the  dark 
shadow  of  a  thicket  of  alders  and  willows,  where  the 
road  crosses  a  tiny  rivulet  that  flows  from  a  spring  a 
hundred  yards  above.  Climbing  out  of  this  gloomy 
hollow,  the  road  turns  sharply  to  the  left,  and  the  men 
hurried  on  to  overtake  their  four-footed  guide  before 
he  should  be  too  long  out  of  their  sight.  Just  at  the 
top  of  the  little  rise,  before  rounding  the  turn,  they 

186 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

stopped.  A  few  feet  to  the  right  of  the  road,  with 
his  nose  at  an  old  gate,  stood  Croesus.  Nor  would  he 
heed  Czar's  bark  commanding  him  to  go  on. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  fence,  an  old  and  long  neg- 
lected apple  orchard,  a  tumble-down  log  barn,  and  the 
wreck  of  a  house  with  the  fireplace  and  chimney 
standing  stark  and  alone,  told  the  story.  The  place 
was  one  of  those  old  ranches,  purchased  by  the  Power 
Company  for  the  water  rights,  and  deserted  by  those 
who  once  had  called  it  home.  From  the  gate,  ancient 
wagon  tracks,  overgrown  with  weeds,  led  somewhere 
around  the  edge  of  the  orchard  and  were  lost  in  the 
tangle  of  trees  and  brush  on  its  lower  side. 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  in  laughing  sur- 
prise. The  burro,  turning  his  head,  gazed  at  them 
over  his  shoulder,  inquiringly,  as  much  as  to  say, 
<rWell,  what's  the  matter  now  ?  Why  don't  you  come 
along?" 

"When  in  doubt,  ask  Croesus,"  said  the  artist, 
gravely. 

Conrad  Lagrange  calmly  opened  the  gate. 

Promptly,  the  burro  trotted  ahead.  Following  the 
ancient  weed-grown  tracks,  he  led  them  around  the 
lower  end  of  the  orchard;  crossed  a  little  stream; 
and,  turning  again,  climbed  a  gentle  rise  of  open, 
grassy  land  behind  the  orchard ;  stopping  at  last,  with 
an  air  of  having  accomplished  his  purpose,  in  a  beau- 
tiful, little  grove  of  sycamore  trees  that  bordered  a 
small  cienaga. 

Completely  hidden  by  the  old  orchard  from  the 
road  in  front,  and  backed  by  the  foot  of  the  moun- 
tain spur  that  here  forms  the  northern  wall  of  the 

187 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOULD 

little  valley,  the  spot  commanded  a  magnificent  view 
of  the  encircling  peaks  and  ridges.  San  Bernardino 
was  almost  above  their  heads.  To  the  east,  were  the 
more  rugged  walls  of  the  upper  and  narrower  end  of 
the  canyon;  in  their  front,  the  beautiful  Oak  Knoll, 
with  the  dark  steeps  and  pine-fringed  crest  of  the 
Galenas  against  the  sky;  while  to  the  west,  the  blue 
peaks  of  the  far  San  Gabriels  showed  above  the  lower 
spurs  and  foothills  of  the  more  immediate  range. 
The  foreground  was  filled  in  by  the  gentle  slope  lead- 
ing down  to  the  tiny  stream  at  the  edge  of  the  old 
orchard  and,  a  little  to  the  left,  by  the  cienaga — rich 
in  the  color  of  its  tall  marsh  grass  and  reeds,  gemmed 
with  brilliant  flowers  of  gold  and  scarlet,  bordered  by 
graceful  willows,  and  screened  from  the  eye  of  the 
chance  traveler  by  the  lattice  of  tangled  orchard 
boughs. 

Seated  in  the  shade  of  the  sycamores  on  the  little 
knoll,  the  two  friends  enjoyed  the  beauty  of  the  scene, 
and  the  charming  seclusion  of  the  lovely  retreat; 
while  Croesus  stood  patiently,  as  though  waiting  to  be 
rewarded  for  his  virtue,  by  the  removal  of  his  pack. 
Even  Czar  refrained  from  charging  here  and  there, 
and  lay  down  contentedly  at  their  feet,  with  an  air  of 
having  reached  at  last  the  place  they  had  been 
seeking. 

A  few  days  later  found  them  established  in  a  com- 
fortable camp;  with  tents  and  furniture  and  ham- 
mocks and  books  and  the  delighted  Yee  Kee  to  take 
care  of  them.  It  had  been  easy  to  secure  permission 
from  the  neighboring  rancher  who  leased  the  orchard 


188 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

from  the  Company.  Conrad  Lagrange,  with  the  man 
and  his  big  mountain  wagon,  had  made  a  trip  to 
town — returning  the  next  day  with  Yee  Kee  and  the 
outfit.  He  brought,  also,  things  from  the  studio ;  for 
the  artist  declared  that  he  would  no  longer  be  without 
the  materials  of  his  art. 

The  first  day  after  the  camp  was  built,  the  artist — 
declaring  that  he  would  settle  the  question,  at  once, 
as  to  whether  Yee  Kee  could  cook  a  trout  as  skillfully 
as  the  novelist — took  rod  and  flies,  and — leaving  the 
famous  author  in  a  hammock,  with  Czar  lying  near — 
set  out  up  the  canyon.  For  perhaps  two  miles,  the 
painter  followed  the  creek — taking  here  and  there 
from  clear  pool  or  swirling  eddy  a  fish  for  his  creel, 
and  pausing  often,  as  he  went,  to  enjoy — in  artist 
fashion — the  beauties  of  the  ever  changing  land- 
scape. 

The  afternoon  was  almost  gone  when  he  finally 
turned  back  toward  camp.  He  had  been  away,  al- 
ready, longer  than  he  intended ;  but  still — as  all  fish- 
ermen will  understand — he  could  not,  on  his  way  back 
down  the  stream,  refrain  from  casting  here  and  there 
over  the  pools  that  tempted  him. 

The  sun  was  touching  the  crest  of  the  mountains 
when  he  had  made  but  little  more  than  half  the  dis- 
tance of  his  return.  He  had  just  sent  his  fly  skillfully 
over  a  deep  pool  in  the  shadow  of  a  granite  boulder, 
for  what  he  determined  must  be  his  last  cast,  when, 
startlingly  clear  and  sweet,  came  the  tones  of  a 
violin. 

A  master  trout  leaped.    The  hand  of  the  unheeding 


189 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOELD 

fisherman  felt  the  tug  as  the  leader  broke.  Giving 
the  victorious  fish  no  thought,  Aaron  King  slowly 
reeled  in  his  line. 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  pure,  vibrant  tones  of 
the  music  to  which  the  man  listened  with  amazed 
delight.  It  was  the  music  of  the,  to  him,  unknown 
violinist  who  lived  hidden  in  the  orange  grove  next 
door  to  his  studio  home  in  Fairlands. 


190 


CHAPTEK  XV 
THE  FOREST  RANGER'S  STORY 

EKHAPS  the  motive  that,  in  Fail-lands, 
had  restrained  the  artist  from  seeking  to 
know  his  neighbor  was  without  force  in 
the  mountains.  Perhaps  it  was  that,  in 
the  unconventional  freedom  of  the  hills, 
the  man  obeyed  more  readily  his  impulse. 
Aaron  King  did  not  stop  to  question.  As  though  in 
answer  to  the  call  of  that  spirit  which  spoke  in  the 
tones  of  the  violin,  he  moved  in  the  direction  from 
which  the  music  came. 

Climbing  out  of  the  bed  of  the  stream  to  the  bench 
that  slopes  back — a  quarter  of  a  mile,  perhaps — to 
the  foot  of  the  canyon  wall,  he  found  himself  in  an 
old  road  that,  where  it  once  crossed  the  creek,  had 
been  destroyed  by  the  mountain  floods.  Wonder- 
ingly,  he  followed  the  dimly  marked  track  that  led 
through  the  chaparral  toward  a  thicket  of  cedars, 
from  beyond  which  the  music  seemed  to  come.  Where 
the  road  curved  to  find  its  way  through  the  green  bar- 
rier, he  paused — the  musician,  undoubtedly,  now, 
was  just  beyond.  Still  acting  upon  the  impulse  of 
the  moment,  he  cautiously  parted  the  boughs  and 
peered  through  into  a  little,  open  glade  that  was 
closed  in  on  every  side  by  the  rank  growth  of  the 
mountain  vegetation,  by  the  thicket  of  dark  cedars 

191 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

and  by  tangled  masses  of  wild  rose-bushes.  Opposite 
the  spot  where  he  stood,  and  half  concealed  by  great 
sycamore  trees,  was  a  small,  log  house  with  a  thread 
of  blue  smoke  curling  lazily  from  the  chimney.  The 
place  was  another  of  those  old  ranches  that  had  been 
purchased  by  the  Power  Company  and  permitted  to 
go  back  to  the  wilderness  from  which  it  had  been  won 
by  some  hardy  settler.  The  little  plot  of  open  ground 
— well  sodded  with  firm  turf  and  short-cropped  by 
roving  cattle  and  deer — had  evidently  been,  at  one 
time,  the  front  yard  of  the  mountaineer's  home.  A 
little  out  from  the  porch,  and  in  full  view  of  the  ar- 
tist,— her  graceful  form  outlined  against  the  back- 
ground of  wild  roses, — stood  Sibyl  Andres  with 
her  violin. 

As  the  girl  played, — her  winsome  face  upturned  to 
the  mountain  heights  and  her  body,  lightly  poised, 
swaying  with  the  movement  of  her  arm  as  easily  as 
a  willow  bough, — she  appeared,  to  the  man  hidden  in 
the  cedars,  as  some  beautiful  spirit  of  the  woods  and 
hills — a  spirit  that  would  vanish  instantly  if  he 
should  step  from  his  hiding  place.  He  was  so  close 
that  he  could  see  her  blue  eyes,  wide  and  unmindful 
of  her  surroundings;  her  lips,  curved  in  an  uncon- 
scious smile;  and  her  cheeks,  flushed  with  emotion 
under  their  warm  brown  tint — as  she  appeared  to 
listen  for  the  music  that  she,  in  turn, — seemingly 
with  no  effort  of  her  will, — gave  forth  again  in  the 
tones  of  the  instrument  under  her  chin. 

Aaron  King  was  moved  by  the  beauty  of  the  pic- 
ture, as  he  had  never  been  stirred  before.  The  pecu- 
liar charm  of  the  music ;  the  loveliness  of  the  girl  her- 

192 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOULD 

self ;  the  setting  of  the  scene  in  the  little  glade  with 
its  wild  roses,  giant  sycamores,  dark  cedars,  and  en- 
circling mountain  walls,  all  in  the  soft  mystery  of 
the  twilight's  beginning ;  and,  withal,  the  unexpected- 
ness of  the  vision — combined  to  make  an  impression 
upon  the  artist's  mind  that  would  endure  for  many 
years. 

Suddenly,  as  he  watched,  the  music  ceased.  The 
girl  lowered  her  violin,  and,  with  a  low  laugh,  said 
to  some  one  on  the  porch — concealed  from  the  painter 
by  the  trunk  of  a  sycamore — "O  Myra,  I  want  to 
dance.  I  can't  keep  still.  I'm  so  glad,  glad  to  be 
home  again — to  see  old  'San  Berdo'  and  'Gray  Back' 
and  all  the  rest  of  them  up  there !"  She  stretched  out 
her  arms  as  if  in  answer  to  a  welcome  from  the  hills. 
Then,  whirling  quickly,  she  gave  the  violin  to  her 
companion  on  the  porch.  "Play,  Myra ;  please,  dear, 
play." 

At  her  word,  the  music  of  the  violin  began  again — 
coming,  now,  from  behind  the  trunk  of  the  sycamore. 
In  the  hands  of  the  unseen  musician,  the  instrument 
laughed  and  sang  a  song  of  joyous  abandonment — of 
freedom  and  rejoicing — of  happiness  and  love — 
while,  in  perfect  harmony  with  the  spirit  and  the 
rhythm  of  the  melody,  the  girl  danced  upon  the  firm, 
green  carpet  of  grass.  Here  and  there,  to  and  fro, 
about  the  little  glade  shut  in  from  the  world  by  its 
walls  of  living  green,  she  tripped  and  whirled  in  un- 
studied grace — lightly  as  if  winged — unconscious  as 
the  wild  creatures  that  play  in  the  depths  of  the 
woods — wayward  as  the  zephyr  that  trips  along  the 
mountainside. 

193 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

It  was  a  spontaneous  expression  of  her  spiritual 
and  physical  exaltation  and  was  as  natural  as  the 
laughter  in  her  voice  or  the  flush  upon  her  cheeks. 
It  was  a  dance  that  was  like  no  dance  that  Aaron 
King  had  ever  seen. 

The  artist — watching  through  the  screen  of  cedar 
boughs  beside  the  old  wagon  road  and  scarcely  daring 
to  breathe  lest  the  beautiful  vision  should  vanish — 
forgot  his  position — forgot  what  he  was  doing.  Fas- 
cinated by  the  scene  to  which  he  had  been  led,  so  un- 
expectedly, by  the  music  he  had  so  often  heard  while 
at  work  in  his  studio,  he  was  unmindful  of  the  rude 
part  he  was  playing.  He  was  brought  suddenly  to 
himself  by  a  heavy  hand  upon  his  shoulder.  As  he 
straightened,  the  hand  whirled  him  half  around,  and 
he  found  himself  looking  into  a  face  that  was  tanned 
and  seamed  by  many  years  in  the  open. 

The  man  who  had  so  unceremoniously  commanded 
the  artist's  attention  stood  a  little  above  six  feet  in 
height,  and  was  of  that  deep-chested,  lean,  but  full- 
muscled,  build  that  so  often  marks  the  mountain 
bred.  He  wore  no  coat.  At  his  hip,  a  heavy  Colt  re- 
volver hung  in  its  worn  holster  from  a  full,  loosely 
buckled,  cartridge  belt.  Upon  his  unbuttoned  vest 
was  the  shield  of  the  United  States  Forest  Service. 
From  under  the  brim  of  his  slouch  hat,  he  gazed  at 
Aaron  King  questioningly — in  angry  disapproval. 

Instinctively,  neither  of  the  men  spoke.  A  word 
would  have  been  heard  the  other  side  of  the  cedars. 
With  a  gesture  commanding  the  artist  to  follow,  the 
Ranger  quietly  withdrew  along  the  wagon  road 
toward  the  creek. 

194 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

When  they  were  at  a  distance  where  their  voices 
would  not  reach  the  girl  in  the  glade,  the  Ranger  said 
with  angry  abruptness,  "Now,  sir,  perhaps  you  will 
tell  me  who  you  are  and  what  you  mean  by  spying 
upon  a  couple  of  women,  like  that." 

The  other  could  not  conceal  his  embarrassment. 
"I  don't  blame  you  for  calling  me  to  account,"  he 
said.  "If  it  were  me — if  our  positions  were  re- 
versed, I  mean — I  should  kick  you  down  into  the 
creek  there." 

The  cold,  blue  eyes — that  had  been  measuring  the 
painter  so  shrewdly — twinkled  with  a  hint  of  humor. 
"You  do  look  like  a  gentleman,  you  know,"  the 
officer  said, — as  if  excusing  himself  for  not  following 
the  artist's  suggestion.  "But,  all  the  same,  you  must 
explain.  Who  are  you  ?" 

"That  part  is  easy,  at  least,"  returned  the  other. 
"Though  the  circumstance  of  our  meeting  is  a  temp- 
tation to  lie." 

"Which  would  do  you  no  good,  and  might  lead  to 
unpleasant  complications,"  retorted  the  Ranger, 
sharply. 

The  man  under  question,  still  embarrassed,  laughed 
shortly,  as  he  returned,  "I  really  was  not  thinking  of 
it  seriously.  My  name  is  Aaron  King.  I  am  an 
artist.  You  are  Mr.  Oakley,  I  supposa" 

The  officer  nodded — beginning  to  smile.  "Yes,  I 
am  Brian  Oakley." 

The  artist  continued,  "A  month  ago,  Conrad  La- 
grange  and  I  came  into  the  mountains  for  an  outing. 
We  stopped  at  the  Station,  but  there  was  no  one  at 
home.  Most  of  the  time,  we  have  been  just  roaming 

195 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

around.  Now,  we  are  camped  down  there,  back  of 
that  old  apple  orchard." 

The  Ranger  broke  into  a  laugh.  "Mrs.  Oakley  was 
visiting  friends  up  the  canyon,  the  day  you  came  in ; 
but  Morton  told  me.  I've  crossed  your  trail  a  dozen 
times,  and  sighted  you  nearly  as  many;  but  I  was 
always  too  busy  to  go  to  you.  I  knew  Lagrange  didn't 
need  any  attention,  you  see ;  so  I  just  figured  on  meet- 
ing up  with  you  somewhere  by  accident  like — about 
meal  time,  mebbe."  He  laughed  again.  "The  acci- 
dent part  worked  out  all  right."  He  paused,  still 
laughing — enjoying  the  artist's  discomfiture;  then 
ended  with  a  curious — "What  in  thunder  were  you 
sneaking  around  in  the  brush  like  that  for,  anyway  ? 
Those  women  won't  bite." 

Aaron  King  explained  how  he  had  heard  the  music 
while  fishing;  and  how,  following  the  sound,  he  had 
acted  upon  an  impulse  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  un- 
known musician  before  revealing  himself;  and  then, 
in  his  interest,  had  forgotten  that  he  was  playing  the 
part  of  a  spy — until  so  rudely  aroused  by  the  hand 
of  the  Ranger. 

Brian  Oakley  chuckled ;  "If  I'd  acted  upon 
impulse  when  I  first  saw  you  peeking  through  those 
cedars,  you  would  have  been  more  surprised  than  you 
were.  But  while  I  was  sneaking  up  on  you  I  noticed 
your  get-up — with  your  creel  and  rod — and  figured 
how  you  might  have  come  there.  So  I  thought  I 
would  go  a  little  slow." 

"And  you  wear  rather  heavy  boots  too,"  said  the 
artist  suggestively.  Then,  more  at  ease,  he  joined  in 
the  laugh  at  himself. 

196 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

"Catch  any  fish?"  asked  the  Ranger — lifting  the 
cover  of  the  creel.  "Whee  I"  as  he  saw  the  contents. 
"That's  bully!  And  I'm  hungry  as  a  she  wolf  too! 
Been  in  the  saddle  since  sunup  without  a  bite.  What 
do  you  say  if  I  make  that  long  deferred  social  call 
upon  you  and  Lagrange  this  evening  ?" 

"I  say,  good!  Mr.  Oakley,"  returned  the  artist, 
heartily.  "I  guess  you  know  what  Lagrange  will 
say." 

"You  bet  I  do."  He  whistled — a  low,  birdlike 
note.  In  answer,  a  beautiful,  chestnut  saddle-horse 
came  out  of  the  chaparral,  where  it  had  not  been  seen 
by  the  painter.  "We're  going,  Max,"  said  the  officer, 
in  a  matter-of-fact  way.  And,  as  the  two  men  set  out, 
the  horse  followed,  with  a  business-like  air  that 
brought  a  word  of  admiring  comment  from  the  artist. 

That  Aaron  King  had  won  the  approval  of  the 
Ranger  was  evidenced  by  the  mountaineer's  inviting 
himself  to  supper  at  the  camp  in  the  sycamores.  The 
fact  that  the  officer  considerately  told  Conrad  La- 
grange  only  that  he  had  met  the  artist  with  his  creel 
full  of  trout,  and  so  had  been  tempted  to  accompany 
him,  won  the  enduring  gratitude  of  the  young  man. 
Thus  the  circumstances  of  their  meeting  introduced 
each  to  the  other,  with  recommendations  of  peculiar 
value,  and  marked  the  beginning  of  a  genuine  and 
lasting  friendship.  But,  while,  out  of  delicate  regard 
for  the  artist's  feelings,  he  refrained  from  relating 
the — to  the  young  man — embarrassing  incident, 
Brian  Oakley  could  not  resist  making,  at  every  oppor- 
tunity, sly  references  to  their  meeting — for  the 
painter's  benefit  and  his  own  amusement.  Thus  it 

197 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOULD 

happened  that,  after  supper,  as  they  sat  with  their 
pipes,  the  talk  turned  upon  Sibyl  Andres  and  the 
woman  with  the  disfigured  face. 

The  Hanger,  to  tease  the  artist,  had  remarked  casu- 
ally,— after  complimenting  them  upon  the  location  of 
their  camp, — "And  you've  got  some  mighty  nice 
neighbors,  less  than  a  mile  above  too." 

"Neighbors!"  ejaculated  Conrad  Lagrange— in  a 
tone  that  left  no  doubt  as  to  his  sentiment  in  the 
matter. 

The  others  laughed ;  while  the  officer  said,  "Oh,  I 
know  how  you  feel !  You  think  you  don't  want  any- 
body poaching  on  your  preserves.  You're  up  here  in 
the  hills  to  get  away  from  people,  and  all  that.  But 
you  don't  need  to  be  uneasy.  You  won't  even  see 
these  folks — unless  you  sneak  up  on  them."  He  stole 
a  look  at  the  artist,  and  chuckled  maliciously  as  the 
painter  covertly  shook  his  fist  at  him.  "You  may 
hear  them  though." 

"Which  would  probably  be  as  bad,"  retorted  the 
novelist,  gruffly. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!"  returned  the  other.  "You 
might  be  able  to  stand  it.  I  don't  reckon  you  would 
object  to  a  little  music  now  and  then,  would  you  ? — 
real  music,  I  mean." 

"So  our  neighbors  are  musical,  are  they?"  The 
novelist  seemed  slightly  interested. 

"Sibyl  Andres  is  the  most  accomplished  violinist  I 
have  ever  heard,"  said  the  Ranger.  "And  I  haven't 
always  lived  in  these  mountains,  you  know.  As  for 
Myra  Willard — well — she  taught  Sibyl — though  she 
doesn't  pretend  to  equal  her  now." 

198 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

Conrad  Lagrange  was  interested,  now,  in  earnest. 
He  turned  to  the  artist,  eagerly — but  with  caution — 
"Do  you  suppose  it  could  be  our  neighbors  in  the 
orange  grove,  Aaron  ?" 

Brian  Oakley  watched  them  with  quiet  amuse- 
ment. 

"I  know  it  is,"  returned  the  artist. 

"You  know  it  is!"  ejaculated  the  other. 

"Sure — I  heard  the  violin  this  afternoon.  While 
I  was  fishing,"  he  added  hastily,  when  the  Kanger 
laughed. 

The  novelist  commented  savagely,  "Seems  to  me 
you're  mighty  careful  about  keeping  your  news  to 
yourself !" 

This  brought  another  burst  of  merriment  from  the 
mountaineer. 

When  the  two  men  had  explained  to  the  Ranger 
about  the  music  in  the  orange  grove,  Conrad  La- 
grange  related  how  they  had  first  heard  that  cry  in 
the  night ;  and  how,  when  they  had  gone  to  the  neigh- 
boring house,  they  had  seen  the  woman  of  the  dis- 
figured face  standing  in  the  doorway. 

"It  was  Miss  Willard  who  cried  out,"  said  Brian 
Oakley,  quietly.  "She  dreams,  sometimes,  of  the 
accident — or  whatever  it  was — that  left  her  with 
those  scars — at  least,  that's  what  I  think  it  is.  Cer- 
tainly, it's  no  ordinary  dream  that  would  make  a 
woman  cry  like  that.  The  first  time  I  heard  her — the 
first  time  that  she  ever  did  it,  in  fact — she  and  Sibyl 
were  stopping  over  night  at  my  house.  It  was  three 
years  ago.  Jim  Eutlidge  had  just  come  West,  on  his 
first  trip,  and  was  up  in  the  hills  on  a  hunt.  He  hap- 

199 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

pened  along  about  sundown,  and  when  he  stepped  into 
the  room  and  Myra  saw  him,  I  thought  she  would 
faint.  He  looked  like  some  one  she  had  known — she 
said.  And  that  night  she  gave  that  horrible  cry. 
Lord !  but  it  threw  a  fright  into  me.  My  wife  didn't 
get  over  being  nervous,  for  a  week.  Myra  explained 
that  she  had  dreamed — but  that's  all  she  would  say. 
I  figured  that  being  upset  by  Rutlidge's  reminding 
her  of  some  one  she  had  known  started  her  mind  to 
going  on  the  past — and  then  she  dreamed  of  whatever 
it  was  that  gave  her  those  scars." 

"You  have  known  Miss  Willard  a  long  time, 
haven't  you,  Brian?"  asked  Conrad  Lagrange,  with 
the  freedom  of  an  old  comrade — for  men  may  grow 
closer  together  in  one  short  season  in  the  mountains 
than  in  years  of  meeting  daily  in  the  city. 

"I've  known  her  ever  since  she  came  into  the  hills. 
That  was  the  year  Sibyl  was  born.  All  that  anybody 
knows  is  what  has  happened  since.  Sibyl's  mother, 
even — a  month  before  she  died — told  me  that  Myra's 
history,  before  she  came  to  them,  was  as  unknown  to 
her  as  it  was  the  day  she  stopped  at  their  door." 

"I  can't  get  over  the  feeling  that  I  ought  to  know 
her — that  I  have  seen  her  somewhere,  years  ago," 
said  the  novelist,  by  way  of  explaining  his  interest. 

"Then  it  was  before  she  got  those  scars,"  returned 
the  Ranger.  "No  one  could  ever  forget  her  face  as 
it  is  now." 

"At  the  same  time,"  commented  the  artist,  "the 
ecars  would  prevent  your  identifying  her  if  she  re- 
ceived them  after  you  had  known  her." 

"All  the  same,"  said  Conrad  Lagrange, — as  though 

200 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

his  mind  was  bothered  by  his  inability  to  establish 
some  incident  in  his  memory, — "I'll  place  her  yet. 
Do  you  mind,  Brian,  telling  us  what  you  do  know  of 
her?" 

"Why,  not  at  all,"  returned  the  officer.  "The 
story  is  anybody's  property.  Its  being  so  well 
known  is  probably  the  reason  you  didn't  hear  it  when 
you  were  up  here  before. 

"Sibyl's  father  and  mother  were  here  in  the  moun- 
tains when  I  came.  They  lived  up  there  at  the  old 
place  where  Myra  and  Sibyl  are  camping  now,  and 
I  never  expect  to  meet  finer  people — either  in  this 
world  or  the  next.  For  twenty  years  I  knew  them 
intimately.  Will  Andres  was  as  true  and  square  and 
white  a  man  as  ever  lived  and  Nelly  was  just  as  good 
a  woman  as  he  was  a  man.  They  and  my  wife  and  I 
were  more  like  brothers  and  sisters  than  most  folks 
who  are  actually  blood  kin. 

"One  day,  along  toward  sundown,  about  a  month 
before  Sibyl  was  born,  Nelly  heard  the  dogs  barking 
and  went  to  see  what  was  up.  There  stood  Myra 
Willard  at  the  gate — like  she'd  dropped  out  of  the 
sky.  Where  she  came  from  God  only  knows — except 
that  she'd  walked  from  some  station  on  the  railroad 
over  toward  the  pass.  She  was  just  about  all  in ;  and, 
of  course,  Nelly  had  her  into  the  house  and  was  fixing 
her  up  in  no  time.  She  wanted  to  work,  but  admitted 
that  she  had  never  done  much  housework.  She  said, 
straight  out,  that  they  should  never  know  more  about 
her  than  they  knew,  then;  but  insisted  that  she  was 
not  a  bad  woman.  At  first,  Will  and  I  were  against 
it  for,  of  course,  it  was  easy  to  see  that  she  was  trying 

201 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

to  get  away  from  something.  But  the  women — Nelly 
and  my  wife — somehow,  believed  in  her,  and — with 
the  baby  due  to  arrive  in  a  month  and  any  kind  of 
help  hard  to  get — they  carried  the  day.  Well,  sir, 
she  made  good.  If  twenty  years  acquaintance  goes 
for  anything,  she's  one  of  God's  own  kind,  and  I 
don't  care  a  damn  what  her  history  is. 

"We  soon  saw  that  she  was  educated  and  refined, 
and — as  you  can  see  for  yourself — she  must  have 
been  remarkably  beautiful  before  she  got  so  disfig- 
ured. When  the  baby  was  born,  she  just  took  the 
little  one  into  her  poor,  broken  heart  like  it  had  been 
her  own,  until  Sibyl  hardly  knew  which  was  her  own 
mother.  When  the  girl  was  old  enough  for  school, 
Myra  begged  Will  and  Nelly  to  let  her  teach  the  child. 
She  was  always  sending  for  books  and  it  was  about 
that  time  that  she  sent  for  a  violin.  The  girl  took  to 
music  like  a  bird.  And — well — that's  the  way  Sibyl 
was  raised.  She's  got  all  the  education  that  the  best 
of  them  have — even  to  French  and  Italian  and  Ger- 
man— and  she's  missed  some  things  that  the  schools 
teach  outside  of  their  text-books.  She  has  a  library — 
given  to  her  mostly  by  Myra,  a  book  at  a  time — that 
represents  the  best  of  the  world's  best  writers.  You 
know  what  her  music  is.  But,  hell !" — the  Ranger 
interrupted  himself  with  an  apologetic  laugh — "I'm 
supposed  to  be  talking  about  Myra  Willard.  I  don't 
know  as  I'm  so  far  off,  either,  because  what  Sibyl  is — 
aside  from  her  natural  inheritance  from  Will  and 
Nelly — Myra  has  made  her. 

"When  Will  was  killed  by  those  Mexican  outlaws, 
— which  is  a  story  in  itself, — Nelly  sold  the  ranch  to 

202 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

the  Power  Company,  and  bought  an  orange  grove  in 
Fairlands — which  was  the  thing  for  her  to  do,  as  she 
and  Myra  could  handle  that  sort  of  property,  and  the 
ranch  had  to  go,  anyway.  Before  Nelly  died,  she 
and  I  talked  things  over,  and  she  put  everything  in 
Myra's  hands,  in  trust  for  the  girl.  Later,  Myra  sold 
the  grove  and  the  house  where  you  men  live,  now, 
and  bought  the  little  place  next  door — putting  the  rest 
of  the  money  into  gilt-edged  securities  in  Sibyl's 
name ;  which  insures  the  girl  against  want,  for  years 
to  come.  Sibyl  helps  out  their  income  with  her 
music.  And  that's  the  story,  boys,  except  that  they 
come  up  here  into  the  mountains,  every  summer,  to 
spend  a  month  or  so  in  the  old  home  place." 

The  Eanger  rose  to  go. 

"But  do  you  think  it  is  safe  for  those  women  to 
stay  up  there  alone  ?"  asked  Aaron  King. 

Brian  Oakley  laughed.  "Safe !  You  don't  know 
Myra  Willard!  Sibyl,  herself,  can  pick  a  squirrel 
out  of  the  tallest  pine  in  the  mountains  with  her  six- 
shooter.  Will  and  I  taught  her  all  we  knew,  as  she 
grew  up.  Besides,  you  see,  I  drop  in  every  day  or 
so,  to  see  that  they're  all  right."  He  laughed  mean- 
ingly, as  he  added, — to  Conrad  Lagrange  for  the 
artist's  benefit, — "I'm  going  to  tell  them,  though,  that 
Sibyl  must  be  careful  how  she  goes  dancing  around 
these  hills — now  that  she  has  such  distinguished  but 
irresponsible  neighbors." 

He  whistled — and  the  chestnut  horse  was  at  his 
side  before  the  echo  of  their  laughter  died  away. 

With  a  "so-long,"  the  Ranger  rode  away  into  the 
night. 

203 


CHAPTER  XVI 
WHEN  THE  CANYON  GATES  ARE  SHUT 


F  Aaron  King  had  questioned  what  it  was 
that  had  held  him  in  the  cedar  thicket 
until  Brian  Oakley's  heavy  hand  broke  the 
spell,  he  would  probably  have  answered 
that  it  was  his  artistic  appreciation  of  the 
beautiful  scene.  But — deep  down  in  the 
man's  inner  consciousness — there  was  a  still,  small 
voice — declaring,  with  an  insistency  not  to  be  denied, 
that — for  him — there  was  a  something  in  that  pic- 
ture, that  was  not  to  be  put  into  the  vernacular  of  his 
profession. 

Had  he  acted  without  his  habitual  self-control,  the 
day  following  the  Ranger's  visit,  he  would,  again, 
have  gone  fishing — up  Clear  Creek — at  least,  to  the 
pool  where  that  master  trout  had  broken  his  leader. 
But  he  did  not.  Instead,  he  roamed  aimlessly  about 
the  vicinity  of  the  camp — explored  the  sycamore 
grove;  climbed  a  little  way  up  the  mountain  spur, 
and  down  again;  circled  the  cienaga;  and  so  came, 
finally,  to  the  ruins  of  the  house  and  barn  on  the 
creek  side  of  the  orchard. 

Not  far  from  the  lonely  fireplace  with  its  naked 
chimney,  a  little,  old  gate  of  split  palings,  in  an  an- 
cient tumble-down  fence,  under  a  great  mistletoe- 
hung  oak,  at  the  top  of  a  bank — attracted  his  careless 

204 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

attention.  From  the  gate,  he  saw  what  once  had  been 
a  path  leading  down  the  bank  to  a  spring,  where  the 
tiny  streamlet  that  crossed  the  road  a  hundred  yards 
away,  on  its  course  to  Clear  Creek,  began.  Pushing 
open  the  gate  that  sagged  dejectedly  from  its  leaning 
post,  the  artist  went  down  the  path,  and  found  him- 
self in  a  charming  nook — shut  in  on  every  side  by  the 
forest  vegetation  that,  watered  by  the  spring,  grew 
rank  and  dense. 

For  a  space  on  the  gate  side  of  the  spring,  the  sod 
was  firm  and  smooth — with  a  gray  granite  boulder  in 
the  center  of  the  little  glade,  and,  here  and  there,  wild 
rose-bushes  and  the  slender,  gray  trunks  of  alder  trees 
breaking  through.  From  the  higher  branches  of  the 
alders  that  shut  out  the  sky  with  their  dainty,  silvery- 
green  leaves,  hung — with  many  a  graceful  loop  and 
knot — ropes  of  wild  grape-vine  and  curtains  of  vir- 
gin's-bower.  Along  the  bank  below  the  old  fence,  the 
wild  blackberries  disputed  possession  with  the  roses ; 
while  the  little  stream  was  mottled  with  the  tender 
green  of  watercress  and  bordered  with  moss  and  fra- 
grant mint.  Above  the  arroyo  willows,  on  the  farther 
side  of  the  glade,  Oak  Knoll,  with  bits  of  the  pine- 
clad  Galenas,  could  be  glimpsed;  but  on  the  orchard 
side,  the  vine-dressed  bank  with  the  old  gate  under 
the  mistletoe  oak  shut  out  the  view.  Through  the 
screen  of  alder  and  grape  and  willow  and  virgin's- 
bower,  the  sunlight  fell,  as  through  the  delicate  tra- 
ceries of  a  cathedral  window.  The  bright  waters  of 
the  spring,  softly  held  by  the  green  sod,  crept  away 
under  the  living  wall,  without  a  sound ;  but  the  deep 
murmur  of  the  distant,  larger  stream,  reached  the 

205 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

place  like  the  low  tones  of  some  great  organ.  A  few 
regularly  placed  stones,  where  once  had  stood  the  fam- 
ily spring-house;  with  the  names,  initials,  hearts  and 
dates  carved  upon  the  smooth  bark  of  the  alders — now 
grown  over  and  almost  obliterated — seemed  to  fill  the 
spot  with  ghostly  memories. 

All  that  afternoon,  the  artist  remained  in  the  little 
retreat.  The  next  day,  equipped  with  easel,  canvas 
and  paint-box,  he  went  again  to  the  glade — deter- 
mined to  make  a  picture  of  the  charming  scene. 

For  a  month,  now,  uninterrupted  by  the  distrac- 
tions of  social  obligations  or  the  like,  Aaron  King  had 
been  subjected  to  influences  that  had  aroused  the 
creative  passion  of  his  artist  soul  to  its  highest  pitch. 
With  his  genius  clamoring  for  expression,  he  had 
denied  himself  the  medium  that  was  his  natural  lan- 
guage. Forbidding  his  friend  to  accompany  him,  he 
worked  now  in  the  spring  glade  with  a  delight — with 
an  ecstasy — that  he  had  seldom,  before,  felt.  And 
Conrad  Lagrange,  wisely,  was  content  to  let  him  go 
uninterrupted. 

As  the  hours  of  each  day  passed,  the  artist  became 
more  and  more  engrossed  with  his  art.  His  spirit 
sang  with  the  joy  of  receiving  the  loveliness  of  the 
scene  before  him,  of  making  it  his  own,  and  of  giving 
it  forth  again — a  literal  part  of  himself.  The  mem- 
ories suggested  by  the  stones  of  the  spring-house  foun- 
dation and  the  old  carvings  on  the  trees ;  the  sunlight, 
falling  so  softly  into  the  hushed  seclusion  of  the  glade, 
as  through  the  traceried  windows  of  a  church;  and 
the  deep  organ-tones  of  the  distant  creek ;  all  served 
to  give  to  the  spot  the  religious  atmosphere  of  a  sanc- 

206 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

tuary ;  while  the  artist's  abandonment  in  his  work  was 
little  short  of  devotion. 

It  was  the  third  afternoon,  when  the  painter  be- 
came conscious  that  he  had  been  hearing  for  some 
time — he  could  not  have  said  how  long — a  low-sung 
melody — so  blending  with  the  organ-tones  of  the 
mountain  stream  that  it  seemed  to  come  out  of  the 
music  of  the  tumbling  waters. 

With  his  brush  poised  between  palette  and  canvas, 
the  artist  paused, — turning  his  head  to  listen, — half 
inclined  to  the  belief  that  his  fancy  was  tricking  him. 
But  no;  the  singer  was  coming  nearer;  the  melody 
was  growing  more  distinct ;  but  still  the  voice  was  in 
perfect  harmony  with  the  deep-toned  accompaniment 
of  the  distant  creek. 

Then  he  saw  her.  Dressed  in  soft  brown  that 
blended  subtly  with  the  green  of  the  willows,  the  gray 
of  the  alder  trunks,  the  russet  of  rose  and  blackberry- 
bush,  and  the  umber  of  the  swinging  grape-vines — in 
the  flickering  sunshine,  the  soft  changing  half-lights, 
and  deep  shadows — she  appeared  to  grow  out  of  the 
scene  itself;  even  as  her  low-sung  melody  grew  out 
of  the  organ-sound  of  the  waters. 

To  get  the  effect  that  satisfied  him  best,  the  painter 
had  placed  his  easel  a  little  back  from  the  grassy, 
open  spot.  Seated  as  he  was,  on  a  low  camp-stool, 
among  the  bushes,  he  would  not  have  been  easily 
observed — even  by  eyes  trained  to  the  quickness  of 
vision  that  belongs  to  those  reared  in  the  woods  and 
hills.  As  the  girl  drew  closer,  he  saw  that  she 
carried  a  basket  on  her  arm,  and  that  she  was  picking 
the  wild  blackberries  that  grew  in  such  luscious  pro- 

207 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

fusion  in  the  rich,  well  watered  ground  at  the  foot 
of  the  sheltering  hank.  Unconscious  of  any  listener, 
as  she  gathered  the  fruit  of  Nature's  offering,  she 
sang  to  the  accompaniment  of  Nature's  music,  with 
the  artless  freedom  of  a  wild  thing  unafraid  in  its 
native  haunts. 

The  man  kept  very  still.  Presently,  when  the  girl 
had  moved  so  that  he  could  not  see  her,  he  turned  to 
his  canvas  as  if,  again,  absorbed  in  his  work — but 
hearing  still,  behind  him,  the  low-voiced  melody  of 
her  song. 

Then  the  music  ceased;  not  abruptly,  but  dying 
away  softly — losing  itself,  again,  in  the  organ-tones 
of  the  distant  waters,  as  it  had  come.  For  a  while, 
the  artist  worked  on ;  not  daring  to  take  his  eyes  from 
his  picture;  but  feeling,  in  every  tingling  nerve  of 
him,  that  she  was  there.  At  last,  as  if  compelled,  he 
abruptly  turned  his  head — and  looked  straight  into 
her  face. 

The  man  had  been,  apparently,  so  absorbed  in  his 
work,  when  first  the  girl  caught  sight  of  him,  that  she 
had  scarcely  been  startled.  When  she  had  ceased  her 
song,  and  he,  still,  had  not  looked  around ;  drawn  by 
her  interest  in  the  picture,  she  had  softly  approached 
until  she  was  standing  quite  close.  Her  lips  were 
slightly  parted,  her  face  was  flushed,  and  her  eyes 
were  shining  with  delight  and  excited  pleasure,  as  she 
stood  leaning  forward,  her  basket  on  her  arm.  So  in- 
terested was  she  in  the  painting,  that  she  seemed  to 
have  quite  forgotten  the  painter,  and  was  not  in  the 
least  embarrassed  when  he  so  suddenly  looked  directly 
into  her  face. 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

"It  is  beautiful,"  she  said,  as  though  in  answer  to 
his  question.  And  no  one — hearing  her,  and  watch- 
ing her  face  as  she  spoke — could  have  doubted  her 
sincerity.  "It  is  so  true,  so — so" — she  searched  for  a 
word,  and  smiled  in  triumph  when  she  found  it — "so 
right — so  beautifully  right.  It — it  makes  me  feel  aa 
— as  I  feel  when  I  am  at  church — and  the  organ  playa 
soft  and  low,  and  the  light  comes  slanting  through  the 
window,  and  some  one  reads  those  beautiful  words, 
'The  Lord  is  in  his  holy  temple;  let  all  the  earth 
keep  silence  before  him'." 

"Why !"  exclaimed  the  artist,  "that  is  exactly  what 
I  wanted  it  to  say.  When  I  saw  this  place,  and 
heard  the  waters  over  there,  like  a  great  organ ;  and 
saw  how  the  sunshine  falls  through  the  trees ;  I  felt 
as  you  say,  and  I  am  trying  to  paint  the  picture  BO 
that  those  whc  see  it  will  feel  that  way  too." 

Her  face  was  aglow  with  enthusiastic  understand- 
ing, as  she  cried  eagerly,  "Oh,  I  know !  I  know !  I'm 
like  that  with  my  music !  When  I  look  nt  the  moun- 
tains, sometimes — or  at  the  trees  and  flowers,  or  hear 
the  waters  sing,  or  the  winds  call — I — I  get  so  full 
and  so — so  kind  of  choked  up  inside  that  it  hurts; 
and  I  feel  as  though  I  must  try  to  tell  it — and  then 
I  take  my  violin  and  try  and  try  to  make  the  musio 
say  what  I  feel.  I  never  can  though — not  altogether. 
But  you  have  made  your  picture  say  what  you  feel. 
That's  what  makes  it  so  right,  isn't  it  ?  They  said  in 
Fairlands  that  you  were  a  great  artist,  and  I  under- 
stand why,  now.  It  must  be  wonderful  to  put  what 
you  see  and  feel  icto  a  picture  like  that — where  noth- 
ing can  ever  change  or  spoil  it." 

209 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

Aaron  King  laughed  with  boyish  embarrassment. 
"Oh,  but  I'm  not  a  great  artist,  you  know.  I  am 
scarcely  known  at  all." 

She  looked  at  him  with  her  great,  blue  eyes  sin- 
cerely troubled.  "And  must  one  be  Tcnown — to  be 
great  ?"  she  asked.  "Might  not  an  artist  be  great  and 
still  be  unknown?  Or,  might  not  one  who  was  really 
very,  very" — again  she  seemed  to  search  for  a  word 
and  as  she  found  it,  smiled — "very  small,  be  known 
all  over  the  world  ?  The  newspapers  make  some 
really  bad  people  famous,  sometimes,  don't  they  ?  No, 
no,  you  are  joking.  You  do  not  really  think  that 
being  known  to  the  world  and  greatness  are  the  same." 

The  man,  studying  her  closely,  saw  that  she  was 
speaking  her  thoughts  as  openly  as  a  child.  Experi- 
mentally, he  said,  "If  putting  what  you  feel  into  your 
work  is  greatness,  then  you  are  a  great  artist,  for 
your  music  does  make  one  feel  as  though  it  came  from 
the  mountains,  themselves." 

She  was  frankly  pleased,  and  cried  intimately, 
"Oh !  do  you  like  my  music  ?  I  so  wanted  you  to." 

It  did  not  occur  to  her  to  ask  when  he  had  heard 
her  music.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  to  explain.  They, 
neither  of  them,  thought  to  remember  that  they  had 
not  been  introduced.  They  really  should  have  pre- 
tended that  they  did  not  know  each  other. 

"Sometimes,"  she  continued  with  winsome  confi- 
dence, "I  think,  myself,  that  I  am  really  a  great  vio- 
linist— and  then,  again," — she  added  wistfully, — "I 
know  that  I  am  not.  But  I  am  sure  that  I  wouldn't 
like  to  be  famous,  at  alL" 


210 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

He  laughed.  "Fame  doesn't  seem  to  matter  so 
much,  does  it;  when  one  is  up  here  in  the  hills  and 
the  canyon  gates  are  closed." 

She  echoed  his  laughter  with  quick  delight.  "Did 
you  see  that  ?  Did  you  see  those  great  doors  open  to 
let  you  in,  and  then  close  again  behind  you  as  if  to 
shut  the  world  outside?  But  of  course  you  would. 
Any  one  who  could  do  that" — she  pointed  to  the  can- 
vas— "would  not  fail  to  see  the  canyon  gates."  With 
her  eyes  again  upon  the  picture,  she  seemed  once  more 
to  forget  the  presence  of  the  painter. 

Watching  her  face, — that  betrayed  her  every  pass- 
ing thought  and  emotion  as  an  untroubled  pool  mir- 
rors the  flowers  that  grow  on  its  banks  or  the  song-bird 
that  pauses  to  drink, — the  artist — to  change  her  mood 
— said,  "You  love  the  mountains,  don't  you  ?" 

She  turned  her  face  toward  him,  again,  as  she  an- 
swered simply,  "Yes,  I  love  the  mountains." 

"If  you  were  a  painter," — he  smiled, — "you  would 
paint  them,  wouldn't  you  ?" 

"I  don't  know  that  I  would," — she  answered 
thoughtfully, — "but  I  would  try  to  get  the  mountains 
into  my  picture,  whatever  it  was.  I  wonder  if  you 
know  what  I  mean  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "I  think  I  know  what  you 
mean ;  and  it  is  a  beautiful  thought.  You  wouldn't 
paint  portraits,  would  you?" 

"I  don't  think  I  could,"  she  answered.  "It  seems 
to  me  it  would  be  so  hard  to  get  the  mountains  into  a 
portrait  of  just  anybody.  An  artist — a  great  artist, 
I  mean — must  make  his  picture  right,  mustn't  he? 


211 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

And  if  his  picture  was  a  portrait  of  some  one  who 
wasn't  very  good,  and  he  made  it  right;  he  wouldn't 
be  liked  very  well,  would  he?  No,  I  don't  think  I 
would  paint  portraits — unless  I  could  paint  just  the 
people  who  would  want  me  to  make  my  picture 
right" 

Aaron  King's  face  flushed  at  the  words  that  were 
spoken  so  artlessly;  and  he  looked  at  her  keenly. 
But  the  girl  was  wholly  innocent  of  any  purpose  other 
than  to  express  her  thoughts.  She  did  not  dream  of 
the  force  with  which  her  simple  words  had  gone  home. 

"You  love  the  mountains,  too,  don't  you  ?"  she 
asked  suddenly. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "I  love  the  mountains.  I  am 
learning  to  love  them  more  and  more.  But  I  fear  I 
don't  know  them  as  well  as  you  do." 

"I  was  born  up  here,"  she  said,  "and  lived  here 
until  a  few  years  ago.  I  think,  sometimes,  that  the 
mountains  almost  talk  to  me." 

"I  wonder  if  you  would  help  me  to  know  the  moun- 
tains as  you  know  them,"  he  asked  eagerly. 

She  drew  a  little  back  from  him,  but  did  not  an- 
•wer. 

"We  are  neighbors,  you  see,"  he  continued  smiling. 
"%.  heard  your  violin,  the  other  evening,  when  I  was 
fishing  up  the  creek,  near  where  you  live;  and  so  I 
know  it  is  you  who  live  next  door  to  us  in  the  orange 
grore.  Mr.  Lagrange  and  I  are  camped  just  over 
*here  back  of  the  orchard.  May  we  hot  be  friends  ? 
Won't  you  help  me  to  know  your  mountains  ?" 

"I  know  about  you,"  she  said.    "Brian  Oakley  told 


212 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOULD 

us  that  you  and  Mr.  Lagrange  were  camped  down 
here.  Mr.  Lagrange  said  that  you  are  a  good  man; 
Brian  Oakley  says  that  you  are  too — are  you  ?" 

The  artist  flushed.  In  his  embarrassment,  he  did 
not  note  the  significance  of  her  reference  to  the  nov- 
elist. "At  least,"  he  said  gently,  "I  am  not  a  very 
bad  man." 

A  smile  broke  over  her  face — her  mood  changing 
as  quickly  as  the  sunlight  breaks  through  a  cloud. 
"I  know  you  are  not" — she  said — "a  bad  man 
wouldn't  have  wanted  to  paint  this  place  as  you  have 
painted  it." 

She  turned  to  go. 

"But  wait !"  he  cried,  "you  haven't  told  me — will 
you  teach  me  to  know  your  mountains  as  you  know 
them?" 

"I'm  sure  I  cannot  say,"  she  answered  smiling,  as 
she  moved  away. 

"But  at  least,  we  will  meet  again,"  he  urged. 

She  laughed  gaily,  "Why  not  ?  The  mountains  are 
for  you  as  well  as  for  me;  and  though  the  hills  are 
so  big,  the  trails  are  narrow,  and  the  passes  very  few." 

With  another  laugh,  she  slipped  away — her  brown 
dress,  that,  in  the  shifty  lights  under  the  thick  foliage, 
so  harmonized  with  the  colors  of  bush  and  vine  and 
tree  and  rock,  being  so  quickly  lost  to  the  artist's  eye 
that  she  seemed  almost  to  vanish  into  the  scene  before 
him. 

But  presently,  from  beyond  the  willow  wall,  he 
heard  her  voice  again — singing  to  the  accompaniment 
of  the  mountain  stream.  Softly,  the  melody  died 


213 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

away  in  the  distance — losing  itself,  at  last,  in  the 
deeper  organ-tones  of  the  mountain  waters. 

For  some  minutes,  the  artist  stood  listening — 
thinking  he  heard  it  still. 

Aaron  King  did  not,  that  night,  tell  Conrad  La- 
grange  of  his  adventure  in  the  spring  glade. 


214 


CHAPTER  XVII 
CONFESSIONS  IN  THE  SPRING  GLADE 

LL  the  next  day,  while  he  worked  upon  his 
picture  in  the  glade,  Aaron  King  listened 
for  that  voice  in  the  organ-like  music  of 
the    distant    waters.      Many    times,    he 
turned  to  search  the  flickering  light  and 
shade  of  the  undergrowth,  behind  him,  for 
a  glimpse  of  the  girl's  brown  dress  and  winsome  face. 
The  next  day  she  came. 

The  artist  had  been  looking  long  at  a  splash  of  sun- 
light that  fell  upon  the  gray  granite  boulder  which 
was  set  in  the  green  turf,  and  had  turned  to  his  can- 
vas for — it  seemed  to  him — only  an  instant.  When  he 
looked  again  at  the  boulder,  she  was  standing  there — 
had,  apparently,  been  standing  there  for  some  time, 
waiting  with  smiling  lips  and  laughing  eyes  for  him 
to  see  her. 

A  light  creel  hung  by  its  webbed  strap  from  her 
shoulder;  in  her  hand,  she  carried  a  slender  fly  rod 
of  good  workmanship.  Dressed  in  soft  brown,  with 
short  skirts  and  high  laced  boots,  and  her  wavy  hair 
tucked  under  a  wide,  felt  hat;  with  her  blue  eyes 
shining  with  fun,  and  her  warmly  tinted  skin  glowing 
with  healthful  exercise ;  she  appeared — to  the  artist — 
more  as  some  mythical  spirit  of  the  mountains,  than 
as  a  maiden  of  flesh  and  blood.  The  manner  of  her 

215 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

Doming,  too,  heightened  the  impression.  He  had 
heard  no  sound  of  her  approach — no  step,  no  rustle  of 
the  underbrush.  He  had  seen  no  movement  among 
the  bushes — no  parting  of  the  willows  in  the  wall  of 
green.  There  had  been  no  hint  of  her  nearness.  He 
oould  not  even  guess  the  direction  from  which  she  had 
«ome. 

At  first,  he  could  scarce  believe  his  eyes,  and  sat 
motionless  in  his  surprise.  Then  her  merry  laugh 
rang  out — breaking  the  spell. 

Springing  from  his  seat,  he  went  forward.  "Are 
jrou  a  spirit?"  he  cried.  "You  must  be  something 
unreal,  you  know — the  way  you  appear  and  disap- 
pear. The  last  time,  you  came  out  of  the  music  of 
the  waters,  and  went  again  the  same  way.  To-day, 
jrou  come  out  of  the  air,  or  the  trees,  or,  perhaps,  that 
gpray  boulder  that  is  giving  me  such  trouble." 

Laughing,  she  answered,  "My  father  and  Brian 
Oakley  taught  me.  If  you  will  watch  the  wild  things 
in  the  woods,  you  can  learn  to  do  it  too.  I  am  no 
more  a  spirit  than  the  cougar,  when  it  stalks  a  rabbit 
in  the  chaparral;  or  a  mink,  as  it  slips  among  the 
rocks  along  the  creek ;  or  a  fawn,  when  it  crouches  to 
hide  in  the  underbrush." 

"You  have  been  fishing?"  he  asked. 

She  laughed  mockingly,  "You  are  so  observing! 
I  think  you  might  have  taken  that  for  granted,  and 
asked  what  luck." 

"I  believe  I  might  almost  take  that  for  granted 
too,"  he  returned. 

"I  took  a  few,"  she  said  carelessly.  Then,  with  a 
•harming  air  of  authority — "And  now,  you  must  go 

216 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

back  to  your  work.  I  shall  vanish  instantly,  if  you 
waste  another  moment's  time  because  I  am  here." 

"But  I  want  to  talk,"  he  protested.  "I  have  been 
working  hard  since  noon." 

"Of  course  you  have,"  she  retorted.  "But  pres- 
ently the  light  will  change  again,  and  you  won't  be 
able  to  do  any  more  to-day;  so  you  must  keep  busy 
while  you  can." 

"And  you  won't  vanish — if  I  go  on  with  my 
work  ?"  he  asked  doubtfully.  She  was  smiling  at  him 
with  such  a  mischievous  air,  that  he  feared,  if  he 
turned  away,  she  would  disappear. 

She  laughed  aloud;  "Not  if  you  work,"  she  said. 
"But  if  you  stop — I'm  gone." 

As  she  spoke,  she  went  toward  his  easel,  and,  rest- 
ing her  fly  rod  carefully  against  the  trunk  of  a 
near-by  alder,  slipped  the  creel  from  her  shoulder, 
placing  the  basket  on  the  ground  with  her  hat.  Then, 
while  the  painter  watched  her,  she  stood  silently  look- 
ing at  the  picture.  Presently,  she  faced  him,  and, 
with  an  impulsive  stamp  of  her  foot,  said,  "Why 
don't  you  work  ?  How  can  you  waste  your  time  and 
this  light,  looking  at  me?  I  shall  go,  if  you  don't 
come  back  to  your  picture,  this  minute." 

With  a  laugh,  he  obeyed. 

For  a  moment,  she  watched  him;  then  turned 
away;  and  he  heard  her  moving  about,  down  by  the 
tiny  stream,  where  it  disappeared  under  the  willows. 

Once,  he  paused  and  turned  to  look  in  her  direc- 
tion. "What  are  you  up  to,  now  ?"  he  said. 

"I  shall  be  up  to  leaving  you," — she  retorted, — "if 
you  look  around,  again." 

217 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

He  promptly  turned  once  more  to  his  picture. 

Soon,  she  came  back,  and  seated  herself  beside  her 
creel  and  rod,  where  she  could  see  the  picture  under 
the  artist's  brush.  "Does  it  bother,  if  I  watch  ?"  she 
asked  softly. 

"No,  indeed,"  he  answered.  "It  helps — that  is,  it 
helps  when  it  is  you  who  watch."  Which — to  the 
painter's  secret  amazement — was  a  literal  truth.  The 
gray  rock  with  the  splash  of  sunshine  that  would  not 
come  right,  ceased  to  trouble  him,  now.  Stimulated 
by  her  presence,  he  worked  with  a  freedom  and  a 
sureness  that  was  a  delight. 

When  he  could  not  refrain  from  looking  in  her 
direction,  he  saw  that  she  was  bending,  with  busy 
hands,  over  some  willow  twigs  in  her  lap.  "What  in 
the  world  are  you  doing  ?"  he  asked  curiously. 

"You  are  not  supposed  to  know  that  I  am  doing 
anything,"  she  retorted.  "You  have  been  peeking 
again." 

"You  were  so  still — I  feared  you  had  vanished," 
he  laughed.  "If  you'll  keep  talking  to  me,  I'll  know 
you  are  there,  and  will  be  good." 

"Sure  it  won't  bother  ?" 

"Sure,"  he  answered. 

"Well,  then,  you  talk  to  me,  and  I'll  answer." 

"I  have  a  confession  to  make,"  he  said,  carefully 
studying  the  gray  tones  of  the  alder  trunk  beyond  the 
gray  boulder. 

"A  confession  ?" 

"Yes,  I  want  to  get  it  over — so  it  won't  bother  me." 

"Something  about  me?" 

"Yes." 

218 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

"Why,  that's  what  I  am  trying  so  hard  to  make  you 
keep  your  eyes  on  your  work  for — because  /  have  to 
make  a  confession  to  you." 

"To  me?" 

"Yes — don't  look  around,  please." 

"But  what  under  the  sun  can  you  have  to  confess 
to  me  ?" 

"You  started  yours  first,"  she  answered.  "Go  on. 
Maybe  it  will  make  it  easier  for  me." 

Studiously  keeping  his  eyes  upon  his  canvas,  he 
told  her  how  he  had  watched  her  from  the  cedar 
thicket.  When  he  had  finished, — and  she  was  silent, 
— he  thought  that  she  was  angry,  and  turned  about — 
expecting  to  see  her  gathering  up  her  things  to  go. 

She  was  struggling  to  suppress  her  laughter.  At 
the  look  of  surprise  on  his  face,  she  burst  forth  in 
such  a  gale  of  merriment  that  the  little  glade  was 
filled  with  the  music  of  her  glee;  while,  in  spite  of 
himself,  the  painter  joined. 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  "but  that  is  funny!  I  am  glad> 
glad!" 

"Now,  what  do  you  mean  by  that?"  he  demanded. 

"Why — why — that's  exactly  what  I  was  trying  to 
get  courage  enough  to  confess  to  you!"  she  gasped. 
And  then  she  told  him  how  she  had  spied  upon  him 
from  the  arbor  in  the  rose  garden;  and  how,  in  his 
absence,  she  had  visited  his  studio. 

"But  how  in  the  world  did  you  get  in  ?  The  place 
was  always  locked,  when  I  was  away." 

"Oh,"  she  said  quaintly,  "there  was  a  good  genie 
who  let  me  in  through  the  keyhole.  I  didn't  meddle 
with  anything,  you  know — I  just  looked  at  the  beau- 

219 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOULD 

tiful  room  where  you  work.  And  I  didn't  glance, 
even,  at  the  picture  on  the  easel.  The  genie  told  me 
you  wouldn't  like  that.  I  would  not  have  drawn  the 
curtain  anyway,  even  if  I  hadn't  been  told.  At  least, 
I  don't  think  I  would — but  perhaps  I  might — I  can't 
always  tell  what  I'm  going  to  do,  you  know." 

Suddenly,  the  artist  remembered  finding  the  studio 
door  open  with  Conrad  Lagrange's  key  in  the  lock, 
and  how  the  novelist  had  berated  himself  with  such 
exaggerated  vehemence;  and,  in  a  flash,  came  the 
thought  of  James  Rutlidge's  visit,  that  afternoon,  and 
of  his  strange  manner  and  insinuating  remarks. 

"I  think  I  know  the  name  of  your  good  genie,"  said 
the  painter,  facing  the  girl,  seriously.  "But  tell  me, 
did  no  one  disturb  you  while  you  were  in  the  studio  ?" 

Her  cheeks  colored  painfully,  and  all  the  laughter 
was  gone  from  her  voice  as  she  replied,  "I  didn't  want 
you  to  know  that  part." 

"But  I  must  know,"  he  insisted  gravely. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "Mr.  Rutlidge  found  me  there; 
and  I  ran  away  through  the  garden.  I  don't  like 
him.  He  frightens  me.  Please,  is  it  necessary  for 
us  to  talk  about  it  any  more  ?  I  had  to  make  my  con- 
fession, of  course,  but  must  we  talk  about  that  part  ?" 

"No,"  he  answered,  "we  need  not  talk  about  it.  It 
was  necessary  for  me  to  know;  but  we  will  never 
mention  that  part,  again.  When  we  are  back  in  the 
orange  groves,  you  shall  come  to  the  rose  garden  and 
to  the  studio,  as  often  as  you  like;  your  good  genie 
and  I  will  see  to  it  that  you  are  not  disturbed — by 
any  one." 

Her  face  brightened  at  his  words.     "And  do  you 

220 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

really  like  for  me  to  make  music  for  you — as  Mr.  La« 
grange  says  you  do  ?" 

"I  can't  begin  to  tell  you  how  much  I  like  it,"  he 
answered  smiling. 

"And  it  doesn't  bother  you  in  your  work  ?" 

"It  helps  me/'  he  declared — thinking  of  that  por- 
trait of  Mrs.  Taine. 

"Oh,  I  am  glad,  glad !"  she  cried.  "I  wanted  it  to 
help.  It  was  for  that  I  played." 

"You  played  to  help  me?"  he  asked  wonderingly. 

She  nodded.  "I  thought  it  might — if  I  could  get 
enough  of  the  mountains  into  my  music,  you  know." 

"And  will  you  dance  for  me,  sometimes  too?"  he 
asked. 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  cannot  tell  about  that. 
You  see,  I  only  dance  when  I  must — when  the 
music,  somehow,  doesn't  seem  quite  enough.  When 
I — when  I" — she  searched  for  a  word,  then  finished 
abruptly — "oh,  I  can't  tell  you  about  it — it's  just 
something  you  feel — there  are  no  words  for  it.  When 
I  first  come  to  the  mountains, — after  living  in  Fair- 
lands  all  winter, — I  always  dance — the  mountains 
feel  so  big  and  strong.  And  sometimes  I  dance  in  the 
moonlight — when  it  feels  so  soft  and  light  and  clean ; 
or  in  the  twilight — when  it's  so  still,  and  the  air  is 
so — so  full  of  the  day  that  has  come  home  to  rest  and 
sleep;  and  sometimes  when  I  am  away  up  under  the 
big  pines  and  the  wind,  from  off  the  mountain  tops, 
under  the  sky,  sings  through  the  dark  branches." 

"But  don't  you  ever  dance  to  please  your  friends  ?" 

"Oh,  no — I  don't  dance  to  please  any  one — only 
just  when  it's  for  myself — when  nothing  else  will  do 

221 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

— when  I  must.  Of  course,  sometimes,  Myra  or 
Brian  Oakley  or  Mrs.  Oakley  are  with  me — but  they 
don't  matter,  you  know.  They  are  so  much  a  part  of 
me  that  I  don't  mind." 

"I  wonder  if  you  will  ever  dance  for  me  ?" 

Again,  she  shook  her  head.  "I  don't  think  so. 
How  could  I  ?  You  see,  you  are  not  like  anybody 
that  I  have  ever  known." 

"But  I  saw  you  the  other  evening,  you  remember." 

"Yes,  but  I  didn't  know  you  were  there.  If  I  had 
known,  I  wouldn't  have  danced." 

All  the  while — as  she  talked — her  fingers  had  been 
busy  with  the  slender,  willow  branches.  "And  now" 
— she  said,  abruptly  changing  the  subject,  and  smil- 
ing as  she  spoke — "and  now,  you  must  turn  back  to 
your  work." 

"But  the  light  is  not  right,"  he  protested. 

"Never  mind,  you  must  pretend  that  it  is,"  she 
retorted.  "Can't  you  pretend  ?" 

To  humor  her,  he  obeyed,  laughing. 

"You  may  look,  now,"  she  said,  a  minute  later. 

He  turned  to  see  her  standing  close  beside  him, 
holding  out  a  charming  little  basket  that  she  had 
woven  of  the  green  willows  and  decorated  with  moss 
and  watercress.  In  the  basket,  on  the  cool,  damp 
moss,  and  lightly  covered  with  the  cress,  lay  a  half 
dozen  fine  rainbow  trout. 

"How  pretty!"  he  exclaimed.  "So  that  is  what 
you  have  been  doing!" 

"They  are  for  you,"  she  said  simply. 

"For  me  ?"  he  cried. 

She  nodded  brightly ;  "For  you  and  Mr.  Lagrange. 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

I  know  you  like  them  because  you  said  you  were  fish- 
ing when  you  heard  my  violin.  And  I  thought  that 
you  wouldn't  want  to  leave  your  picture,  to  fish  for 
yourself,  so  I  took  them  for  you." 

The  artist  concealed  his  embarrassment  with  diffi- 
culty ;  and,  while  expressing  his  thanks  and  apprecia- 
tion in  rather  formal  words,  studied  her  face  keenly. 
But  she  had  tendered  her  gift  with  a  spontaneous 
naturalness,  an  unaffected  kindliness,  and  an  inno- 
cent disregard  of  conventionalities,  that  would  have 
disarmed  a  man  with  much  less  native  gentleness  than 
Aaron  King. 

Leaving  the  basket  of  trout  in  his  hand,  she  turned, 
and  swung  the  empty  creel  over  her  shoulder.  Then, 
putting  on  her  hat,  she  picked  up  her  rod. 

"Oh — are  you  going  ?"  he  said. 

"You  have  finished  your  work  for  to-day,"  she  an- 
swered. 

"But  let  me  go  with  you,  a  little  way." 

She  shook  her  head.    "E~o,  I  don't  want  you." 

"But  you  will  come  again  ?" 

"Perhaps — if  you  won't  stop  work — but  I  can't 
promise — you  see  I  never  know  what  I  am  going  to 
do  up  here  in  the  mountains,"  she  answered  whimsi- 
cally. "I  might  go  to  the  top  of  old  'Berdo'  in  the 
morning;  or  I  might  be  here,  waiting  for  you,  when 
you  come  to  paint." 

He  was  putting  his  things  in  the  box — thinking  he 
would  persuade  her  to  let  him  accompany  her  a  little 
way ;  if  she  saw  that  he  really  would  paint  no  more. 
When  he  bent  over  the  box,  she  was  speaking.  "I 
hope  you  will,"  he  answered. 

223 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOULD 

There  was  no  reply. 

He  straightened  up  and  looked  around. 

She  was  gone. 

For  some  time,  he  stood  searching  the  glade  with 
his  eyes,  carefully ;  listening  to  catch  a  sound — a  puz- 
zled, baffled  look  upon  his  face.  Taking  his  things, 
at  last,  he  started  up  the  little  path.  But  before  he 
reached  the  old  gate,  a  low  laugh  caused  him  to  whirl 
quickly  about. 

There  she  stood,  beside  the  spring — a  teasing  smile 
on  her  face.  Before  he  could  command  himself,  she 
danced  a  step  or  two,  with  an  elfish  air,  and  slipped 
away  through  the  green  willow  wall.  Another  merry 
laugh  came  back  to  him  and  then — the  silence  of  the 
little  glade,  and  the  sound  of  the  distant  waters. 

With  the  basket  of  fish  in  his  hand,  Aaron  King 
went  slowly  to  camp ;  where,  when  Conrad  Lagrange 
saw  what  the  artist  carried  so  carefully,  explana- 
tions were  in  order- 


224 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
SIBYL  ANDRES  AND  THE  BUTTERFLIES 

"  the  following  day,  the  artist  was  putting 
away  his  things,  at  the  close  of  the  after- 
noon's work,  when  the  girl  appeared. 

The  long,  slanting  bars  of  sunshine  and 
the  deepening  shadows  marked  the  late- 
ness of  the  hour.  As  he  bent  over  his 
paint-box,  the  man  was  thinking  with  regret  that  she 
would  not  come — that,  perhaps,  she  would  never 
come.  And  at  the  thought  that  he  might  not  see  her 
again,  an  odd  fear  gripped  his  heart.  His  thoughts 
were  interrupted  by  a  low,  musical  laugh;  and  he 
sprang  to  his  feet,  to  search  the  glade  with  careful 
eves. 

"Come  out,"  he  cried,  as  though  adjuring  an  in- 
visible spirit.  "I  know  you  are  here ;  come  out." 

With  another  laugh,  she  stepped  from  behind  the 
trunk  of  one  of  the  largest  trees,  within  a  few  feet  of 
where  he  stood.  As  she  went  toward  him,  she  carried 
in  her  outstretched  hands  a  graceful  basket,  woven 
of  sycamore  leaves  and  ferns,  and  filled  with  the  rip- 
est, sweetest  blackberries.  She  did  not  speak  as  she 
held  out  her  offering;  but  the  man,  looking  into  her 
laughing  eyes,  fancied  that  there  was  a  meaning  and 
a  purpose  in  the  gift  that  did  not  appear  upon  the 
surface  of  her  simple  action. 

225 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

Expressing  his  pleasure,  as  he  received  the  dainty 
basket,  he  could  not  refrain  from  adding,  "But  why 
do  you  bring  me  things  ?" 

She  answered  with  that  wayward,  mocking  humor 
that  so  often  seized  her;  "Because  I  like  to.  I  told 
you  that  I  always  do  what  I  like — up  here  in  the 
mountains." 

"I  hope  you  always  will,"  he  returned,  "if  your 
likes  are  all  as  delicious  as  this  one." 

With  the  manner  of  a  child  playfully  making  a 
mystery  yet  anxious  to  have  the  secret  discussed,  she 
said,  "I  have  one  more  gift  to  bring  you,  yet." 

"I  knew  you  meant  something  by  your  presents," 
he  cried.  "It  isn't  just  because  you  want  me  to  have 
the  things  you  bring." 

"Oh,  yes  it  is,"  she  retorted,  laughing  mischiev- 
ously at  his  triumphant  and  expectant  tone.  "If  I 
didn't  want  you  to  have  the  things  I  bring — why — I 
wouldn't  bring  them,  would  I  ?" 

"But  that  isn't  all,"  he  insisted.  "Tell  me — why 
do  you  say  you  have  one  more  gift  to  bring  ?" 

She  shook  her  head  with  a  delightful  air  of  mys- 
tery. "Not  until  I  come  again.  When  I  come  again, 
I  will  tell  you." 

"And  you  will  come  to-morrow  ?" 

She  laughed  teasingly  at  his  eagerness.  "How  can 
I  tell  ?"  she  answered.  "I  do  not  know,  myself,  what 
I  will  do  to-morrow — when  I  am  up  here  in  the 
mountains — when  the  canyon  gates  are  shut  and  the 
world  is  left  outside."  Even  as  she  spoke,  her  mood 
changed  and  the  last  words  were  uttered  wistfully,  as 
a  captive  spirit — that,  by  nature  wild  and  free,  was 

226 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

permitted,  for  a  brief  time  only,  to  go  beyond  its 
prison  walls — might  have  spoken. 

The  artist — puzzled  by  her  flash-like  change  of 
moods,  and  by  her  manner  as  she  spoke  of  the  world 
beyond  the  canyon  gates — had  no  words  to  reply.  As 
he  stood  there, — in  that  little  glade  where  the  light 
fell  as  in  a  quiet  cathedral  and  the  air  trembled  with 
the  deep  organ-tones  of  the  distant  waters — holding 
in  his  hands  the  basket  of  leaves  and  ferns  with  its 
wild  fruit,  and  looking  at  the  beautiful  girl  who  had 
brought  her  offering  with  the  naturalness  of  a  child 
of  the  mountains  and  the  air  of  a  woodland  spirit, — 
he  again  felt  that  the  world  he  had  always  known  was 
very  far  away. 

The  girl,  too,  was  silent — as  though,  by  some  subtle 
power,  she  knew  his  thoughts  and  did  not  wish  to 
interrupt. 

So  still  were  they,  that  a  wild  bird — darting 
through  the  screen  of  alder  boughs — stopped  to  swing 
on  a  limb  above  their  heads,  with  a  burst  of  wild-wood 
melody.  In  the  arroyo  beyond  the  willow  wall,  a 
quail  called  his  evening  call,  and  was  answered  by 
his  mate  from  the  top  of  the  bank  under  the  mistletoe 
oak.  A  pair  of  gray  squirrels  crept  down  the  gray 
trunks  of  the  trees  and  slipped  around  the  granite 
boulder  to  drink  at  the  spring;  then  scampered  away 
again — half  in  frolic,  half  in  fright — as  they  caught 
sight  of  the  man  and  the  maid.  As  the  squirrels  dis- 
appeared, the  girl  laughed — a  low  laugh  of  fellowship 
with  the  creatures  of  the  wilderness — in  complete 
understanding  of  their  humor.  Then — as  though 
following  the  path  of  a  sunbeam — two  gorgeously 

227 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOULD 

brown  and  yellow  winged  butterflies  came  flitting 
through  the  draperies  of  virgin' s-bower,  and  floated 
in  zigzag  flight  about  the  glade — now  high  among  the 
alder  boughs ;  now  low  over  the  tops  of  the  roses  and 
berry-bushes;  down  to  the  fragrant  mint  at  the 
water's  edge ;  and  up  again  to  the  tops  of  the  willows, 
as  if  to  leave  the  glade;  but  only  to  return  again  to 
the  vines  that  covered  the  bank,  and  to  the  flowers 
that,  here  and  there,  starred  the  grassy  sward. 

"Oh !" — cried  the  girl  impulsively,  as  the  beautiful 
winged  creatures  disappeared  at  last, — "if  people 
could  only  be  like  that !  It's  so  hard  to  be  yourself  in 
the  world.  Everybody,  there,  seems  trying  to  be 
something  they  are  not.  No  one  dares  to  be  just 
themselves.  Everything,  up  here,  is  so  right — so  true 
— so  just  what  it  is — and  down  there,  everything 
tries  so  hard  to  be  just  what  it  is  not.  The  world 
even  sees  so  crooked  that  it  cant  believe  when  a  thing 
is  just  what  it  is." 

While  watching  the  butterflies,  she  had  turned 
away  from  the  artist  and,  in  following  their  flight 
with  her  eyes,  had  taken  a  few  light  steps  that  brought 
her  into  the  open,  grassy  center  of  the  glade.  With 
her  face  upturned  to  the  opening  in  the  foliage 
through  which  the  butterflies  had  disappeared,  she 
had  spoken  as  if  thinking  aloud,  rather  than  as  ad- 
dressing her  companion. 

Before  the  artist  could  reply,  the  beautiful  crea- 
tures came  floating  back  as  they  had  gone.  With  a 
low  exclamation  of  delight,  the  girl  watched  them  as 
they  circled,  now,  above  her  head,  in  their  aerial  waltz 
among  the  sunbeams  and  leafy  boughs.  Then  the 

228 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

man,  watching,  saw  her — unheeding  his  presence — 
stretch  her  arms  upward.  For  a  moment  she  stood, 
lightly  poised,  and  then,  with  her  wide,  shining  eyes 
fixed  upon  those  gorgeously  winged  spirits  whirling 
in  the  fragrant  air,  with  her  lips  parted  in  smiling 
delight,  she  danced  upon  the  smooth  turf  of  the  glade 
— every  step  and  movement  in  perfect  harmony  with 
the  spirit  of  care-free  abandonment  that  marked  the 
movements  of  the  butterflies  that  danced  above  her 
head.  Unmindful  of  the  watching  man,  as  her  dainty 
companions  themselves, — forgetful  of  his  presence, — 
she  yielded  to  the  impulse  to  express  her  emotions  in 
free,  rhythmic  movement. 

Instinctively,  Aaron  King  was  silent — standing 
motionless,  as  if  he  feared  to  startle  her  into  flight. 

Suddenly,  as  the  girl  danced — her  eyes  always 
upon  her  winged  companions — the  insects  floated 
above  the  artist's  head,  and  she  became  conscious  of 
his  presence.  Her  cheeks  flushed  and,  laughing  low, 
— as  she  danced,  lightly  as  a  spirit, — she  impulsively 
stretched  out  her  arms  to  him,  in  merry  invitation — 
as  though  challenging  him  to  join  her. 

The  gesture  was  as  spontaneous  and  as  innocent, 
in  its  freedom,  as  had  been  her  offering  of  the  gifts 
from  mountain  stream  and  bush.  But  the  man — 
lured  into  forgetfulness  of  everything  save  the  wild 
loveliness  of  the  scene — started  toward  her.  At 
his  movement,  a  look  of  bewildered  fear  came  into 
her  face ;  but — too  startled  to  control  her  movements 
on  the  instant,  and  as  though  impelled  by  some  hidden 
power — she  moved  toward  him — blindly,  uncon- 
sciously— her  eyes  wide  with  that  look  of  questioning 

229 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

fright.  He  had  almost  reached  her  when,  as  though 
by  an  effort  of  her  will,  she  stopped  and  stood  still — 
gazing  into  his  face — trembling  in  every  limb.  Then, 
with  a  low  cry,  she  sank  down  in  a  frightened,  cower- 
ing, pleading  attitude,  and  buried  her  crimson  face 
in  her  hands. 

As  though  some  unseen  hand  checked  him,  the  man 
halted,  and  the  girl's  cheeks  were  not  more  crimson 
than  his  own. 

A  moment  he  stood,  then  a  step  brought  him  to  her 
side.  Putting  out  his  hand,  he  touched  her  upon  the 
shoulder,  and  was  about  to  speak.  But  at  his  touch, 
with  another  cry,  she  sprang  to  her  feet  and,  whirling 
with  the  flash-like  quickness  of  a  wild  thing,  vanished 
into  the  undergrowth  that  walled  in  the  glade. 

With  a  startled  exclamation,  the  man  tried  to  fol- 
low; calling  to  her,  reassuring  her,  begging  her  to 
come  back.  But  there  was  no  answer  to  his  words ; 
nor  did  he  catch  a  glimpse  of  her;  though  once  or 
twice  he  thought  he  heard  her  in  swift  flight  up  the 
canyon. 

All  the  way  to  the  place  where  he  had  first  seen 
her,  he  followed ;  but  at  the  cedar  thicket  he  stopped. 
For  a  long  time,  he  stood  there;  while  the  twilight 
failed  and  the  night  came.  Slowly, — in  the  soft  dark- 
ness, with  bowed  head,  as  one  humbled  and  ashamed, 
— he  went  back  down  the  canyon  to  the  little  glade, 
and  to  the  camp. 


CHAPTER  XIX 
THE  THREE  GIFTS  AND  THEIR  MEANINGS 

HE  next  day,  Aaron  King — too  distracted 
to  paint — idled  all  the  afternoon  in  the 
glade.  But  the  girl  did  not  come.  When 
it  was  dark,  he  returned  to  camp ;  telling 
himself  that  she  would  never  come  again; 
that  his  rude  yielding  to  the  lure  of  her 
wild  beauty  had  rightly  broken  forever  the  charm  of 
their  intimacy — and  he  cursed  himself — as  many  a 
man  has  cursed — for  that  momentary  lack  of  self- 
control. 

But  the  following  afternoon,  as  the  artist  worked, 
— bent  upon  quickly  finishing  his  picture  of  the  place 
that  seemed  now  to  reproach  him  with  its  sweet  atmos- 
phere of  sacred  purity, — he  heard,  as  he  had  heard 
that  first  day,  the  low  music  of  her  voice  blending 
with  the  music  of  the  mountain  stream.  Scarce  dar- 
ing to  move,  he  sat  as  though  absorbed  in  his  work — 
listening,  with  all  his  heart,  for  some  sound  of  her 
approach,  other  than  the  melody  of  her  song  that  grew 
more  and  more  distinct.  At  last,  he  knew  that  she 
was  standing  just  the  other  side  of  the  willows,  be- 
yond the  little  spring.  He  felt  her  hidden  eyes  upon 
him,  but  dared  not  look  that  way — feeling  sure  that 
if  he  betrayed  himself  in  too  eager  haste  she  would 
vanish.  Bending  forward  toward  his  canvas,  he 

231 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

made  show  of  giving  close  attention  to  his  work  and 
waited. 

For  some  minutes,  she  remained  concealed;  sing- 
ing low,  as  though  to  try  him  with  temptation.  Then, 
all  at  once, — as  the  painter,  with  poised  brush, 
glanced  from  his  canvas  to  the  scene, — she  stood  in 
full  view  beside  the  spring;  her  graceful,  brown-clad 
figure  framed  by  the  willow's  green.  Her  arms  were 
filled  with  wild  flowers  that  she  had  gathered  from 
the  mountainside — from  nook  and  glade  and  glen. 

"If  you  will  not  seek  me,  there  is  no  use  to  hide," 
she  called,  still  holding  her  place  on  the  other  side  of 
the  spring,  and  regarding  him  seriously ;  and  the  man 
felt  under  her  words,  and  saw  in  her  wide,  blue  eyes 
a  troubled  question. 

"I  sought  you  all  the  way  to  your  home,"  he  said, 
gently,  "but  you  would  not  let  me  come  near." 

"I  was  frightened,"  she  returned,  not  lowering  her 
eyes  but  regarding  him  steadily  with  that  questioning 
appeal. 

"I  am  sorry," — he  said, — "won't  you  forgive  me  ? 
I  will  never  frighten  you  so  again.  I  did  not  mean  to 
do  it." 

"Why,"  she  answered,  "I  have  to  forgive  myself  as 
well  as  you.  You  see,  I  frightened  myself  quite  as 
much  as  you  frightened  me.  I  can't  feel  that  you 
were  really  to  blame — any  more  than  I.  I  have  tried, 
but  I  can't — so  I  came  back.  Only,  I — I  must  never 
dance  for  you  again,  must  I  ?" 

The  man  could  not  answer. 

As  though  fully  reassured,  and  quite  satisfied  to 
take  his  answer  for  granted,  she  sprang  over  the  tiny 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

stream  at  her  feet,  and  came  to  him  across  the  glade, 
holding  out  her  arms  full  of  blossoms.  "See,"  she 
said  with  a  smile,  "I  have  brought  you  the  last  one  of 
the  three  gifts."  Gracefully,  she  knelt  and  placed 
the  flowers  on  the  ground,  beside  his  box  of  colors. 

Deeply  moved  by  her  honesty  and  by  her  simple 
trust  in  him ;  and  charmed  by  the  air  of  quiet,  natural 
dignity  with  which  she  spoke  of  her  gifts;  the  artist 
tried  to  thank  her. 

"And  now,"  he  added,  "the  meaning — tell  me  tht 
meaning  of  your  gifts.  You  promised — you  remem- 
ber— that  you  would  read  the  pretty  riddle,  when  you 
came  again." 

She  laughed  merrily.  "And  haven't  you  guessed 
the  meaning  ?"  she  said  in  her  teasing  mood. 

"How  could  I  ?"  he  retorted.  "I  was  not  schooled 
in  your  mountains,  you  know.  Your  world  up  her« 
is  still  a  strange  world  to  me." 

Still  smiling  with  the  pleasure  of  her  fancy,  sh« 
replied,  "But  didn't  you  ask  me  again  and  again  to 
help  you  to  know  the  mountains  as  I  know  them  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "but  you  would  not  promise." 

"I  did  better  than  promise" — she  returned — "I 
brought  you,  from  the  mountains  themselves,  their 
three  greatest  gifts." 

He  shook  his  head,  with  the  air  of  a  backward 
schoolboy — "Won't  you  read  the  lesson  ?" 

"If  you  will  work  while  I  talk,  I  will,"  she  an- 
swered— amused  by  the  hopelessness  of  his  manner 
and  tone. 

Obediently,  he  took  up  his  brushes,  and  turned  to- 
ward his  picture. 

233 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

Removing  her  hat,  she  seated  herself  on  the  ground, 
where  she  had  woven  the  willow  basket  for  the  fish. 

After  a  moment's  silence,  she  began — timidly,  at 
first,  then  with  increasing  confidence  as  she  found 
words  to  express  her  charming  fancy.  "First,  you 
must  know,  that  in  all  the  wild  life  of  the  mountains 
there  is  no  creature  so  strong — in  proportion  to  its 
size  and  weight,  I  mean — as  the  trout  that  lives  in 
the  mountain  streams.  Its  home  is  in  the  icy  tor- 
rents that  are  fed  by  the  snows  of  the  highest  peaks 
and  canyons.  It  lives,  literally,  in  the  innermost 
heart  and  life  of  the  hills.  It  seeks  its  food  at  the 
foot  of  the  falls,  where  the  water  boils  in  fierce  fury ; 
where  the  current  swirls  and  leaps  among  the 
boulders;  and  where  the  stream  rushes  with  all  its 
might  down  the  rocky  channels.  With  its  muscles, 
fine  as  tempered  steel,  it  forces  its  way  against  the 
strength  of  the  stream — conquering  even  the  fifty-foot 
downward  pour  of  a  cataract.  Its  strength  is  a  silent 
strength.  It  has  no  voice  other  than  the  voice  of  its 
own  beautiful  self.  And  all  its  gleaming  colors  you 
may  see,  in  the  morning  and  in  the  evening,  tinting 
the  mighty  heads  and  shoulders  and  sides  of  the  hills 
themselves.  And  so,  the  first  gift  that  I  brought  you 
— fresh  from  the  mountain's  heart — was  the  gift  of 
the  mountain's  strength. 

"The  second  gift  was  gathered  from  bushes  that 
were  never  planted  by  the  hand  of  man.  They  grow 
as  free  and  untamed  as  the  rains  that  water  them, 
and  the  earth  that  feeds  them,  and  the  sunshine  that 
sweetens  them.  In  them  is  the  flavor  of  mountain 
mists,  and  low  hung  clouds,  and  shining  dew;  the 

234 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

odor  of  moist  leal-mould,  and  unimpoverished  soil; 
the  pleasant  tang  of  the  sunshine ;  and  the  softer 
sweetness  of  the  shady  nooks  where  they  grow.  In 
the  second  gift,  I  brought  you  the  purity,  and  the 
flavor  of  the  mountains/' 

"And  to-day" — she  finished  simply — "to-day  I 
have  brought  you  the  beauty  of  the  hills." 

"You  have  brought  me  more  than  the  strength  and 
purity  and  beauty  of  the  mountains,"  exclaimed  the 
painter.  "You  have  brought  me  their  mystery." 

She  looked  at  him  questioningly. 

"In  your  own  beautiful  self,"  he  continued  sin- 
cerely, "you  have  brought  me  the  mystery  of  these 
hills.  You  are  wonderful !  I  have  never  known  any 
one  like  you." 

She  was  wholly  unconscious  of  the  compliment — 
if,  indeed,  he  meant  it  as  such.  "I  suppose  I  must  be 
different,"  she  returned  with  just  a  touch  of  sadness 
in  her  voice.  "You  see  I  have  never  been  taught  like 
other  girls.  I  know  nothing  at  all  of  the  world  where 
you  live — except  what  Myra  has  told  me."  Then,  as 
if  to  change  the  subject,  she  asked  shyly,  "Would  you 
care  for  my  music  to-day?" 

He  assented  eagerly — thinking  she  meant  to  sing. 
But,  rising,  she  crossed  the  glade,  and  disappeared 
behind  the  willows — returning,  a  moment  later,  with 
her  violin. 

In  answer  to  his  exclamation  of  pleased  surprise, 
she  said  smiling,  "I  brought  my  violin  because  I 
thought,  if  you  would  let  me  play,  the  music  would 
perhaps  help  us  both  to  forget  what — what  happened 
when  I  danced." 

235 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

Standing  by  the  gray  boulder,  with  her  face  up- 
turned to  the  mountains,  she  placed  the  instrument 
under  her  chin  and  drew  the  bow  softly  across  the 
strings. 

For  an  hour  or  more  she  played.  Then,  as  Czar 
trotted  sedately  into  the  glade,  she  lowered  her  in- 
strument; and,  with  a  smile,  called  merrily  to  Con- 
rad Lagrange  who,  attracted  by  the  music,  was  stand- 
ing at  the  gate  on  the  bank — from  the  artist's  posi- 
tion, invisible;  "Come  down,  good  genie, — come 
down!  You  have  been  watching  there  quite  long 
enough.  Come,  instantly;  or  with  my  magic  I'll 
turn  you  into  a  fantastic,  dancing  bug,  such  as  those 
that  straddle  there  upon  the  waters  of  the  spring,  or 
else  into  a  fat  pollywog  that  wiggles  in  the  black  ooze 
among  the  dead  leaves  and  rotting  bits  of  wood." 

With  a  quick  movement,  she  tucked  her  violin 
under  her  chin  and  played  a  few  measures  of  the 
worst  sort  of  ragtime,  in  perfect  imitation  of  a  popu- 
lar performer.  The  effect,  following  the  music  she 
had  just  been  making,  was  grotesque  and  horrible. 

"Mercy,  mercy!"  cried  the  man  at  the  gate.  "I 
beg!  I  beg!  Do  not,  I  pray,  good  nymph,  torture 
me  with  thy  dreadful  power.  I  swear  that  I  will 
obey  thy  every  wish  and  whirn." 

Pointing  with  her  bow — as  with  a  wand — to  the 
boulder,  she  sternly  commanded,  "Come,  then,  and  sit 
here  upon  this  rock ;  and  give  to  me  an  account  of  all 
that  thou  hast  done  since  I  left  thee  in  the  rose  gar- 
den; or  I  will  split  thy  ears  and  stretch  thy  soul 
upon  a  torture  rack  of  hideous  noise." 

She  lifted  her  violin  again,  threateningly.      The 

236 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

novelist  came  down  the  path,  on  a  run,  to  seat  him- 
self  upon  the  gray  boulder. 

The  artist  shouted  with  laughter.  But  the  novelist 
and  the  girl  paid  no  heed  to  his  unseemly  merriment, 

"Speak," — she  commanded,  waving  her  wand, — 
"what  hast  thcu  done  ?" 

"Did  I  not  obey  thy  will  and,  under  such  terms  a« 
I  could  procure,  open  for  thee  the  treasure  room  of 
thy  desire  ?"  growled  the  man  on  the  rock. 

"And  still,"  she  retorted,  "when  I  made  myself 
subject  to  those  terms,  and  obediently  looked  not 
upon  the  hidden  mystery — still  the  room  of  my  de- 
sires became  a  trap  betraying  me  into  rude  hands 
from  which  I  narrowly  escaped.  And  you — you  fled 
the  scene  of  your  wrong-doing,  without  so  much  a* 
by-your-leave,  and  for  these  long  weeks  have  wan- 
dered, irresponsible,  among  my  hills.  Did  you  not 
say  that  my  home  was  under  these  glowing  peaks,  and 
in  the  purple  shadows  of  these  canyons?  Did  you 
think  that  I  would  not  find  you  here,  and  charm  you 
again  within  reach  of  my  power  ?" 

"And  what  is  thy  will,  good  spirit?" — he  asked, 
humbly — "tell  me  thy  will  and  it  shall  be  done — if 
thou  wilt  but  make  music  only  upon  the  instrument 
that  is  in  thy  hand." 

With  a  laugh,  she  ended  the  play,  saying,  "My  will 
is  that  you  and  Mr.  King  come,  to-morrow  evening, 
for  supper  with  Miss  Willard  and  me.  Brian  Oakley 
and  Mrs.  Oakley  will  be  there.  I  want  you  too." 

The  men  looked  at  each  other  in  doubt. 

"Really,  Miss  Andres,"  said  the  artist,  "we — " 

The  girl  interrupted  with  one  of  her  flash-lik« 

237 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

changes.  "I  have  invited  you.  You  must  come.  I 
shall  expect  you."  And  before  either  of  the  men 
could  speak  again,  she  sprang  lightly  across  the  little 
stream,  and  disappeared  through  the  willow  wall. 

"Well,  I'll  be—"  The  novelist  checked  himself, 
solemnly — staring  blankly  at  the  spot  where  she  had 
disappeared. 

The  artist  laughed. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it  ?"  demanded  Conrad  La- 
grange,  turning  to  his  friend. 

Aaron  King,  packing  up  his  things,  answered,  "I 
think  we'd  better  go." 

Which  opinion  was  concurred  in  by  Brian  Oakley 
who  dropped  in  on  them  that  evening. 


CHAPTER  XX 
MYRA'S  PRAYER  AND   THE   RANGER'S   WARNING 

HAT  same  afternoon,  while  Sibyl  Andres 
was  making  music  for  Aaron  King  in  the 
spring  glade,  Brian  Oakley,  on  his  way 
down  the  canyon,  stopped  at  the  old  place 
where  Myra  Willard  and  the  girl  were 
living.  Riding  into  the  yard  that  was 
fenced  only  by  the  wild  growth,  he  was  greeted  cor- 
dially by  the  woman  with  the  disfigured  face,  who 
was  seated  on  the  porch. 

"Howdy,  Myra,"  he  called  in  return,  as  he  swung 
from  the  saddle ;  and  leaving  the  chestnut  to  roam  at 
will,  he  went  to  the  porch,  his  spurs  clinking  softly 
over  the  short,  thick  grass. 

''Where's  Sibyl  ?"  he  asked,  seating  himself  on  the 
top  step. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  Mr.  Oakley,"  the  woman 
answered,  smiling.  "You  really  didn't  expect  me  to, 
did  you?" 

The  Ranger  laughed.  "Did  she  take  gun,  basket, 
rod  or  violin  ?  If  I  know  whether  she's  gone  shoot- 
ing, berrying,  fishing  or  fiddling,  it  may  give  me  a 
clue — or  did  she  take  all  four?'' 

The  woman  watched  him  closely.  "She  took  only 
her  violin.  She  went  sometime  after  lunch — down 
the  canyon,  I  think.  Do  you  wish  particularly  to  see 
her,  Mr.  Oakley?" 

239 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

It  was  evident  to  the  woman  that  the  officer  was 
relieved.  "Oh,  no;  she  wouldn't  be  going  far  with 
her  violin.  If  she  went  down  the  canyon,  it's  all  right 
anyway.  But  I  stopped  in  to  tell  the  girl  that  she 
must  be  careful,  for  a  while.  There's  an  escaped 
convict  ranging  somewhere  in  my  district.  I  received 
the  word  this  morning,  and  have  been  up  around 
Lone  Cabin  and  Burnt  Pine  and  the  head  of  Clear 
Creek  to  see  if  I  could  start  anything.  I  didn't  find 
any  signs,  but  the  information  is  reliable.  Tell  Sibyl 
that  I  say  she  must  not  go  out  without  her  gun — that 
if  I  catch  her  wandering  around  unarmed,  I'll  pack 
her  off  back  to  civilization,  pronto." 

"I'll  tell  her,"  said  Myra  Willard,  "and  I'll  help 
her  to  remember.  It  would  be  better,  I  suppose,  if 
she  stayed  at  home ;  but  that  seems  so  impossible." 

"She'll  be  all  right  if  she  has  her  gun,"  asserted 
the  Ranger,  confidently.  "I'd  back  the  girl  against 
anything  I  ever  met  up  with — when  she  has  her 
artillery.  By  the  way,  Myra,  have  your  neighbors 
below  called  yet?" 

"No — at  least,  not  while  I  have  been  at  home.  I 
have  been  berrying,  two  or  three  times.  They  might 
have  come  while  I  was  out." 

"Has  Sibyl  met  them  yet  ?"  came  the  next  question. 

"She  has  not  mentioned  it,  if  she  has." 

"H-m-m,"  mused  Brian  Oakley. 

The  woman's  lo^e  for  the  girl  prompted  her  to 
quick  suspicion  of  the  Ranger's  manner. 

"What  is  it,  Mr.  Oakley  ?"  she  asked.  "Has  the 
child  been  indiscreet?  Has  she  done  anything 
wrong  ?  Has  she  been  with  those  men  ?" 

240 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOULD 

"She  has  called  upon  one  of  them  several  times," 
returned  Brian,  smiling.  "Mr.  King  is  painting  that 
little  glade  by  the  old  spring  at  the  foot  of  the  bank, 
you  know,  and  I  guess  she  stumbled  onto  him.  The 
place  is  one  of  her  favorite  spots.  But  bless  your 
heart,  Myra,  there's  no  harm  in  it.  It  would  be 
natural  for  her  to  get  interested  in  any  one  making  a 
picture  of  a  place  she  loves  as  she  does  that  old  spring 
glade.  She  has  spent  days  at  a  time  there — ever 
since  she  was  big  enough  to  go  that  far  from  home." 

"It's  strange  that  she  has  not  mentioned  it  to  me," 
said  the  woman — troubled  in  spite  of  the  Ranger's 
reassuring  words. 

The  man  directed  his  attention  suddenly  to  his 
horse;  "Max!  You  let  Sibyl's  roses  alone."  The 
animal  turned  his  head  questioningly  toward  his 
master.  "Back !"  said  the  Ranger,  "back !"  At  his 
word,  the  chestnut  promptly  backed  across  the  yard 
until  the  officer  called,  "That  will  do,"  when  he 
halted,  and,  with  an  impatient  toss  of  his  head,  again 
looked  toward  the  porch,  inquiringly.  "You  are  all 
right  now,"  said  the  man.  Whereupon  the  horse 
began  contentedly  cropping  the  grass. 

"I  met  Mr.  King,  accidentally,  once,  at  the  depot 
in  Fairlands,"  continued  the  woman  with  the  dis- 
figured face.  "He  impressed  me,  then,  as  being  a 
genuinely  good  man — a  true  gentleman.  But,  judg- 
ing from  his  books,  Conrad  Lagrange  is  not  a  man 
I  would  wish  Sibyl  to  meet.  I  have  wondered  at  the 
artist's  friendship  with  him." 

"I  tell  you,  Myra,  Lagrange  is  all  right,"  said 
Brian  Oakley,  stoutly.  "He's  odd  and  eccentric  and 

241 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOKLD 

rough  spoken  sometimes ;  but  he's  not  at  all  what  you 
would  think  him  from  the  stuff  he  writes.  He's  a 
true  man  at  heart,  and  you  needn't  worry  about  Sibyl 
getting  anything  but  good  from  an  acquaintance  with 
him.  As  for  King — well — Conrad  Lagrange  vouches 
for  him.  If  you  knew  Lagrange,  you'd  understand 
what  that  means.  He  and  the  young  fellow's  mother 
grew  up  together.  He  swears  the  lad  is  right;  and, 
from  what  I've  seen  of  him,  I  believe  it.  It  doesn't 
follow,  though,  that  you  don't  need  to  keep  your  eyes 
open.  The  girl  is  as  innocent  as  a  child — though  she 
is  a  woman — and — well — accidents  have  happened, 
you  know."  As  he  spoke  he  glanced  unconsciously  at 
the  scars  that  disfigured  the  naturally  beautiful  face 
of  the  woman. 

Myra  Willard  blushed  as  she  answered  sadly, 
"Yes,  I  know  that  accidents  have  happened.  I  will 
talk  with  Sibyl ;  and  will  you  not  speak  to  her  too  ? 
She  loves  you  so,  and  is  always  guided  by  your 
wishes.  A  little  word  or  two  from  you  would  be  an 
added  safeguard." 

"Sure  I'll  talk  to  her,"  said  the  Eanger,  heartily — 
rising  and  whistling  to  the  chestnut.  "But  look  here, 
Myra," — he  said,  pausing  with  his  foot  in  the  stirrup, 
— "the  girl  must  have  her  head,  you  know.  We  don't 
want  to  put  her  in  the  notion  that  every  man  in  the 
world  is  a  villain  laying  for  a  chance  to  do  her  harm. 
There  are  clean  fellows — a  few — and  it  will  do  Sibyl 
good  to  meet  that  kind."  He  swung  himself  lightly 
into  the  saddle. 

The  woman  smiled ;  "Sibyl  could  not  think  that  all 


242 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

men  are  evil,  after  knowing  her  father  and  you,  Mr. 
Oakley." 

The  Kanger  laughed  as  he  turned  Max  toward  the 
opening  in  the  cedar  thicket.  "Will  was  what  God 
and  Nelly  made  him,  Myra;  and  I — if  I'm  fairly 
decent  it's  because  Mary  took  me  in  hand  in  time. 
Men  are  mostly  what  you  women  make  'em,  anyway, 
I  reckon." 

"Don't  forget  that  you  and  Mrs.  Oakley  are 
coming  for  supper  to-morrow,"  she  called  after  him. 

"No  danger  of  our  forgetting  that,"  he  answered. 
"Adios!"  And  the  chestnut  loped  easily  out  of  the 
yard. 

Myra  Willard  kept  her  place  on  the  porch  until  the 
sound  of  the  horse's  galloping  feet  died  away  down 
the  canyon.  But,  as  she  listened  to  the  vanishing 
sound  of  the  Ranger's  going,  her  eyes  were  looking 
far  away — as  though  his  words  had  aroused  in  her 
heart  memories  of  days  long  past.  When  the  last 
echo  had  lost  itself  in  the  thin  mountain  air,  she  went 
into  the  house. 

Standing  before  the  small  mirror  that  served — in 
the  rude,  almost  camp-like  furnishings  of  the  house — 
for  both  herself  and  Sibyl,  she  studied  the  lace  re- 
flected there — turning  her  head  slowly,  as  if 
comparing  the  beautiful  unmarked  side  with  the 
other  that  was  so  hideously  disfigured.  For  some 
time  she  stood  there,  unflinchingly  giving  herself  to 
the  torture  of  this  contemplation  of  her  ruined  love- 
liness ;  drinking  to  its  bitter  dregs  the  sorrowful  cup 
of  her  secret  memories;  until,  as  though  she  could 


243 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

bear  no  more,  she  drew  back — her  eyes  wide  with 
pain  and  horror,  her  marred  features  owisted  gro- 
tesquely, in  an  agony  of  mental  suffering.  With  a 
pitiful  moan  she  sank  upon  her  knees  in  prayer. 

In  the  earnestness  of  her  spirit — out  of  the  deep 
devotion  of  her  love — as  she  prayed  God  for  wisdom 
to  guide  the  girl  entrusted  to  her  care,  she  spoke 
aloud.  "Let  me  not  rob  her,  dear  Christ,  of  love; 
but  help  me  to  help  her  love  aright.  Help  me,  that 
in  my  fear  for  her  I  do  not  turn  her  heart  against 
her  mate  when  he  shall  come.  Help  me,  that  I  do  not 
so  fill  her  pure  mind  with  doubt  and  distrust  of  all 
men  that  she  will  look  for  evil,  only.  Help  me,  that 
I  do  not  teach  her  to  associate  love  wholly  with  that 
which  is  base  and  untrue.  Grant,  O  God,  that  her 
beautiful  life  may  not  be  marred  by  a  love  that  is 
unworthy." 

As  the  woman  with  the  disfigured  face  rose  from 
her  knees,  she  heard  the  voice  of  Sibyl,  who  was  com- 
ing up  the  old  road  toward  the  cedars — singing  as  she 
<?ame. 

When  Sibyl  entered  the  house,  a  moment  later, 
Myra  Willard,  still  agitated,  was  bathing  her  face. 
The  girl,  seeing,  checked  the  song  upon  her  lips ;  and 
going  to  the  woman  who  in  everything  but  the  ties  of 
blood  was  mother  to  her,  sought  to  discover  the 
reason  for  her  troubled  manner,  and  tried  to  soothe 
her  with  loving  words. 

The  woman  held  the  girl  close  in  her  arms  and 
looked  into  the  lovely,  winsome  face  that  was  so  un- 
marred  by  vicious  thoughts  of  the  world's  teaching. 


244 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOKLD 

"Dear  child,  do  you  not  sometimes  hate  the  sight  of 
my  ugliness  ?"  she  said.  "It  seems  to  me,  you  must." 

With  her  arms  about  her  companion's  neck,  Sibyl 
pressed  her  pure,  young  lips  to  those  disfiguring 
scars,  in  an  impulsive  kiss.  "Foolish  Myra,"  she 
cried,  "you  know  I  love  you  too  well  to  see  anything 
but  your  own  beautiful  self  behind  the  scars.  To  me, 
your  face  is  all  like  this" — and  she  softly  kissed,  in 
turn,  the  woman's  unmarred  cheek.  "Whatever  made 
the  marks,  I  know  that  they  are  not  dishonorable.  So 
I  never  think  of  them  at  all,  but  see  only  the  beautiful 
side — which  is  really  you,  you  know." 

"No,"— answered  Myra  Willard,  gently,— "my 
scars  are  not  dishonorable.  But  the  world  does  not 
see  with  your  pure  eyes,  dear  child.  The  world  sees 
only  the  ugly,  disfigured  side  of  my  face.  It  never 
looks  at  the  other  side.  And  listen,  dear  heart,  so 
the  world  often  sees  dishonor  where  there  is  no  dis- 
honor. It  sees  evil  in  many  things  where  there  is 
only  good." 

"Yes,"  returned  the  girl,  "but  you  have  never 
taught  me  to  see  with  the  eyes  of  the  world.  So,  to 
me,  what  the  world  sees,  does  not  matter." 

"Pray  that  it  may  never  matter,  child,"  answered 
the  woman  with  the  disfigured  face,  earnestly. 

Then,  as  they  went  out  to  the  porch,  she  asked, 
"Did  you  meet  Mr.  Oakley  as  you  were  coming 
home  ?" 

Sibyl  laughed  and  colored  with  a  confusion  that 
was  new  to  her.  as  she  answered,  "Yes,  I  did — and 
he  scolded  me." 


245 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

"About  your  going  unarmed  ?" 

"No, — but  he  told  me  about  that  too.  I  don't  see 
why,  whenever  a  poor  criminal  escapes,  he  always 
conies  into  our  mountains.  I  don't  like  to  'pack  a 
gun' — unless  I'm  hunting.  But  Brian  Oakley  didn't 
scold  me  for  that,  though — he  knows  I  always  do  as  he 
says.  He  scolded  because  I  hadn't  told  you  about  my 
going  to  see  Mr.  King,  in  the  spring  glade."  She 
laughed,  conscious  of  the  color  that  was  in  her  cheeks. 
"I  told  him  it  didn't  matter  whether  I  told  you  or  not, 
because  he  always  knows  every  single  move  I  make, 
anyway." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me,  dear  ?"  asked  the  woman. 
"You  never  kept  anything  from  me,  before — I'm 
sure." 

"Why  dearest,"  the  girl  answered  frankly,  "I  don't 
know,  myself,  why  I  didn't  tell  you" — which,  Myra 
Willafd  knew,  was  the  exact  truth. 

Then  Sibyl  told  her  foster-mother  everything  about 
her  acquaintance  with  the  artist  and  Conrad  La- 
grange — from  the  time  she  first  watched  the  painter, 
from  the  arbor  in  the  rose  garden,  where  she  met  the 
novelist;  until  that  afternoon,  when  she  had  invited 
them  to  supper,  the  next  day.  Only  of  her  dancing 
before  the  artist,  the  girl  did  not  tell. 

Later  in  the  evening,  Sibyl — saying  that  she  would 
sing  Myra  to  sleep — took  her  violin  to  the  porch,  out- 
side the  window;  and  in  the  dusk  made  soft  music 
until  the  woman's  troubled  heart  was  calmed.  When 
the  moon  came  up  from  behind  the  Galenas,  across 
the  canyon,  the  girl  tiptoed  into  the  house,  to  bend 
over  the  sleeping  woman,  in  tender  solicitude.  With 

246 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

that  mother  tenderness  belonging  to  all  true  women, 
she  stooped  and  softly  kissed  the  disfigured  face  upon 
the  pillow.  At  the  touch,  Myra  Willard  stirred  un- 
easily; and  the  girl — careful  to  make  no  sound — 
withdrew. 

On  the  porch,  she  again  took  up  her  violin  as  if  to 
play;  but,  instead,  sat  motionless — her  face  turned 
down  the  canyon — her  eyes  looking  far  away.  Then, 
quickly,  she  put  aside  the  instrument,  and — as  though 
with  sudden  yielding  to  some  inner  impulse — slipped 
out  into  the  grassy  yard.  And  there,  in  the  moon's 
white  light, — with  only  the  mountains,  the  trees,  and 
the  flowers  to  see, — she  danced,  again,  as  she  had 
danced  before  the  artist  in  the  glade — with  her  face 
turned  down  the  canyon,  and  her  arms  outstretched, 
longingly,  toward  the  camp  in  the  sycamores  back  of 
the  old  orchard. 

Suddenly,  from  the  room  where  Myra  Willard 
slept,  came  that  shuddering,  terror-stricken  cry. 

The  girl,  fleet-footed  as  a  deer,  ran  into  the  house. 
Kneeling,  she  put  her  strong  young  arms  about  the 
cowering,  trembling  form  on  the  bed.  "There,  there, 
dear,  it's  all  right." 

The  woman  of  the  disfigured  face  caught  Sibyl's 
hand,  impulsively.  "I — I — was  dreaming  again," 
she  whispered,  "and — and  this  time — O  Sibyl — this 
time,  I  dreamed  that  it  was  you." 


947 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  LAST  CLIMB 

HAT  first  visit  of  Aaron  King  and  Conrad 
Lagrange  to  the  old  home  of  Sibyl  An- 
dres was  the  beginning  of  a  delightful 
comradeship. 

Often,  in  the  evening,  the  two  men, 
with  Czar,  went  to  spend  an  hour  in 
friendly  intercourse  with  their  neighbors  up  the  can- 
yon. Always,  they  were  welcomed  by  Myra  Willard 
with  a  quiet  dignity;  while  Sibyl  was  frankly  de- 
lighted to  have  them  come.  Always,  they  were 
invited  with  genuine  hospitality  to  "come  again." 
Frequently,  Brian  Oakley  and  perhaps  Mrs.  Oakley 
would  be  there  when  they  arrived;  or  the  Ranger 
would  come  riding  into  the  yard  before  they  left.  At 
times,  the  canyon's  mountain  wall  echoed  the  laughter 
of  the  little  company  as  Sibyl  and  the  novelist  played 
their  fantastical  game  of  words;  or  again,  the  older 
people  would  listen  to  the  blending  voices  of  the  artist 
and  the  girl  as,  in  the  quiet  hush  of  the  evening,  they 
sang  together  to  Myra  Willard's  accompaniment  on 
the  violin ;  or,  perhaps,  Sibyl,  with  her  face  upturned 
to  the  mountain  tops,  would  make  for  her  chosen 
friends  the  music  of  the  hills. 

Not  infrequently,  too,  the  girl  would  call  at  the 
camp  in  the  sycamore  grove — sometimes  riding  with 

248 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

the  Ranger,  sometimes  alone ;  or  they  would  hear  her 
merry  hail  from  the  gate  the  other  side  of  the  orchard 
as  she  passed  by.  And  sometimes,  in  the  morning, 
she  would  appear — equipped  with  rod  or  gun  or 
basket — to  frankly  challenge  Aaron  King  to  some 
long  ramble  in  the  hills. 

So  the  days  for  the  young  man  at  the  beginning  of 
his  life  work,  and  for  the  young  woman  at  the  be- 
ginning of  her  womanhood,  passed.  Up  and  down  the 
canyon,  along  the  boulder-strewn  bed  of  the  roaring 
Clear  Creek,  from  the  Ranger  Station  to  the  falls ;  in 
the  quiet  glades  under  the  alders  hung  with  virgin's- 
bower  and  wild  grape;  beneath  the  live-oaks  on  the 
mountains'  flanks  or  shoulders;  in  dimly  lighted, 
cedar-sheltered  gulches,  among  tall  brakes  and  lilies ; 
or  high  up  on  the  canyon  walls  under  the  dark  and 
fragrant  pines — over  all  the  paths  and  trails  familiar 
to  her  girlhood  she  led  him — showing  him  every  nook 
and  glade  and  glen — teaching  him  to  know,  as  he  had 
asked,  the  mountains  that  she  herself  so  loved. 

The  time  came,  at  last,  when  the  two  men  must 
return  to  Fairlands.  With  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Oakley  they 
were  spending  the  evening  at  Sibyl's  home  when  Con-1 
rad  Lagrpnge  announced  that  they  would  leave  the 
mountains,  two  days  later. 

"Then,"— said  the  girl,  impulsively,— "Mr.  King 
and  I  are  going  for  one  last  good-by  climb  to-morrow. 
Aren't  we  ?"  she  concluded — turning  to  the  artist. 

Aaron  King  laughed  as  he  answered,  "We  certainly 
seem  to  be  headed  that  way.  Where  are  we  going  ?" 

"We  will  start  early  and  come  back  late" — she 
returned — "which  really  is  all  that  any  one  ought  to 

249 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

know  about  a  climb  that  is  just  for  the  climb.  And 
listen — no  rod,  no  gun,  no  sketch-book.  I'll  fix  a 
lunch." 

"Watch  out  for  my  convict,"  warned  the  Ranger. 
"He  must  be  getting  mighty  hungry,  by  now." 

Early  in  the  morning,  they  set  out.  Crossing  the 
canyon,  they  climbed  the  Oak  Knoll  trail — down 
which  the  artist  and  Conrad  Lagrange  had  been  led 
by  the  uncanny  wisdom  of  Croesus,  a  few  weeks 
before — to  the  pipe-line.  Where  the  path  from  below 
leads  into  the  pipe-line  trail,  under  the  live-oaks,  on 
a  shelf  cut  in  the  comparatively  easy  slope  of  the 
mountain's  shoulder,  they  paused  for  a  look  over  the 
narrow  valley  that  lay  a  thousand  feet  below.  Across 
the  wide,  gray,  boulder-strewn  wash  of  the  mountain 
torrent's  way,  with  the  gleaming  thread  of  tumbling 
Clear  Creek  in  its  center,  they  could  see  the  white 
dots  that  marked  the  camp  back  of  the  old  orchard; 
and,  farther  up  the  stream,  could  distinguish  the 
little  opening  with  the  cedar  thicket  and  the  giant 
sycamores  that  marked  the  spot  where  Sibyl  was 
born. 

Aaron  King,  looking  at  the  girl,  recalled  that  day 
when  he  and  Conrad  Lagrange,  in  a  spirit  of  venture- 
some fun,  had  left  the  choice  of  trails  to  the  burro. 
"Good,  old  Croesus !"  he  said  smiling. 

She  knew  the  story  of  how  they  had  been  guided 
to  their  camping  place,  and  laughed  in  return,  as  she 
answered,  "He's  a  dear  old  burro,  is  Croesus,  and 
worthy  of  a  better  name." 

"Plutus  would  be  better,"  suggested  the  artist. 


250 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

"Because  a  Greek  God  is  better  than  a  Lydian 
King?"  she  asked  curiously. 

"Wasn't  Plutus  the  giver  of  wealth  ?"  he  returned. 

"Yes." 

"Well,  and  wasn't  he  forced  by  Zeus  to  distribute 
his  gifts  without  regard  to  the  characters  of  the 
recipients  ?" 

She  laughed  merrily.  "Plutus  or  Croesus — I'm 
glad  he  chose  the  Oak  Knoll  trail." 

"And  so  am  I,"  answered  the  man,  earnestly. 

Leisurely,  they  followed  the  trail  that  is  hung — 
a  narrow  thread-like  path — high  upon  the  mountain 
wall,  invisible  from  the  floor  of  the  canyon  below. 
At  a  point  where  the  trail  turns  to  round  the  inward 
curve  of  one  of  the  small  side  canyons — where  the 
pines  grow  dark  and  tall — some  thoughtful  hand  had 
laid  a  small  pipe  from  the  large  conduit  tunnel,  under 
the  trail,  to  a  barrel  fixed  on  the  mountainside  below 
the  little  path.  Here  they  stopped  again  and,  while 
they  loitered,  filled  a  small  canteen  with  the  cold, 
clear  water  from  the  mountain's  heart.  Farther  on, 
where  the  pipe-line  again  rounds  the  inward  curve 
of  the  wall  between  two  mountain  spurs,  they  turned 
aside  to  follow  the  Government  trail  that  leads  to  the 
fire-break  on  the  summit  of  the  Galenas  and  then 
down  into  the  valley  on  the  other  side.  At  the  gap 
where  the  Galena  trail  crosses  the  fire-break,  they 
again  turned  aside  to  make  their  leisure  way  along 
the  broad,  brush-cleared  break  that  lies  in  many  a 
fold  and  curve  and  kink  like  a  great  ribbon  on  the 
thin  top  of  the  ridge.  With  every  step,  now,  they 


251 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

were  climbing.  Midday  found  them  standing  by  a 
huge  rock  at  the  edge  of  a  clump  of  pines  on  one  of 
the  higher  points  of  the  western  end  of  the  range. 
Here  they  would  have  their  lunch. 

As  they  sat  in  the  lee  of  the  great  rock,  with  the 
wind  that  sweeps  the  mountain  tops  singing  in  the 
pines  above  their  heads,  they  looked  directly  down 
upon  the  wide  Galena  Valley  and  far  across  to  the 
spurs  and  slopes  of  the  San  Jacintos  beyond.  Sibyl's 
keen  eyes — mountain-trained  from  childhood — 
marked  a  railway  train  crawling  down  the  grade  from 
San  Gorgonio  Pass  toward  the  distant  ocean.  She 
tried  in  vain  to  point  it  out  to  her  companion.  But 
the  city  eyes  of  the  man  could  not  find  the  tiny  speck 
in  the  vast  landscape  that  lay  within  the  range  of 
their  vision.  The  artist  looked  at  his  watch.  The 
train  was  the  Golden  State  Limited  that  had  brought 
him  from  the  far  away  East,  a  few  months  before. 

Aaron  King  remembered  how,  from  the  platform 
of  the  observation  car,  he  had  looked  up  at  the  moun- 
tains from  which  he  now  looked  down.  He  remem- 
bered, too,  the  woman  into  whose  eyes  he  had,  for  the 
first  time,  looked  that  day.  Turning  his  face  to  the 
west,  he  could  distinguish  under  the  haze  of  the  dis- 
tance the  dark  squares  of  the  orange  groves  of  Fair- 
lands.  Before  three  days  had  passed  he  would  be  in 
his  studio  home  again.  And  the  woman  of  the 
observation  car  platform —  From  distant  Fairlands. 
the  man  turned  his  eyes  to  the  winsome  face  of  his 
girl  comrade  on  the  mountain  top. 

"Please" — she  said,  meeting  his  serious  gaze  with 


252 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

a  smile  of  frank  fellowship — "please,  what  have  I 
done?" 

Smiling,  he  answered  gravely,  "I  don't  exactly 
know — but  you  have  done  something." 

"You  look  so  serious.  I'm  sure  it  must  be  pretty 
bad.  Can't  you  think  what  it  is  ?" 

He  laughed.  "I  was  thinking  about  down  there" — 
he  pointed  into  the  haze  of  the  distant  valley  to  the 
west. 

"Don't,"  she  returned,  "let's  think  about  up  here" 
— she  waved  her  hand  toward  the  high  crest  of  the 
San  Bernardinos,  and  the  mountain  peaks  about 
them. 

"Will  you  let  me  paint  your  portrait — when  we 
get  back  to  the  orange  groves  ?"  he  asked. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  she  returned.  "Why  do 
you  want  to  paint  me  ?  I'm  nobody,  you  know — but 
just  me." 

"That's  the  reason  I  want  to  paint  you,"  he  an- 
swered. 

"What's  the  reason  ?" 

"Because  you  are  you." 

"But  a  portrait  of  me  would  not  help  you  on  your 
road  to  fame,"  she  retorted. 

He  flinched.  "Perhaps,"  he  said,  "that's  partly 
why  I  want  to  do  it." 

"Because  it  won't  help  you  ?" 

"Because  it  won't  help  me  on  the  road  to  fame. 
You  will  pose  for  me,  won't  you  ?" 

"I'm  sure  I  cannot  say" — she  answered — "perhaps 
— please  don't  let's  talk  about  it," 


253 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

"Why  not?"  he  asked  curiously. 

"Because" — she  answered  seriously — "we  have 
been  such  good  friends  up  here  in  the  mountains; 
such — such  comrades.  Up  here  in  the  hills,  with  the 
canyon  gates  shut  against  the  world  that  I  don't 
know,  you  are  like — like  Brian  Oakley — and  like  my 
father  used  to  be — and  down  there" — she  hesitated. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "and  down  there  I  will  be  what  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  answered  wistfully,  "but  some- 
times I  can  see  you  going  on  and  on  and  on  toward 
fame  and  the  rewards  it  will  bring  you  and  you  seem 
to  get  farther  and  farther  and  farther  away  from — 
from  the  mountains  and  our  friendship ;  until  you  are 
so  far  away  that  I  can't  see  you  any  more  at  all.  I 
don't  like  to  lose  my  mountain  friends,  you  know." 

He  smiled.  "But  no  matter  how  famous  I  might 
become — no  matter  what  fame  might  bring  me — I 
could  not  forget  you  and  your  mountains." 

"I  would  not  want  you  to  remember  me,"  she  an- 
swered, "if  you  were  famous.  That  is — I  mean"— • 
she  added  hesitatingly — "if  you  were  famous  just 
because  you  wanted  to  be.  But  I  know  you  could 
never  forget  the  mountains.  And  that  would  be  the 
trouble ;  don't  you  see  ?  If  you  could  forget,  it  would 
not  matter.  Ask  Mr.  Lagrange,  he  knows." 

For  some  time  Aaron  King  sat,  without  speaking, 
looking  about  at  the  world  that  was  so  far  from  that 
other  world — the  world  he  had  always  known.  The 
girl,  too, — seeming  to  understand  the  thoughts  that 
he  himself,  perhaps,  could  not  have  expressed, — was 
silent. 

Then  he  said  slowly,  "I  don't  think  that  I  care  for 

254 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

fame  as  I  did  before  you  taught  me  to  know  the 
mountains.  It  doesn't,  somehow,  now,  seem  to 
matter  so  much.  It's  the  work  that  really  matters — 
after  all — isn't  it  ?" 

And  Sibyl  Andres,  smiling,  answered,  "Yes,  it's 
the  work  that  really  matters.  I'm  sure  that  must  be 
so." 

In  the  afternoon,  they  went  on,  still  following  the 
fire-break,  down  to  where  it  is  intersected  by  the  pipe- 
line a  mile  from  the  reservoir  on  the  hill  above  the 
power-house;  then  back  to  Oak  Knoll,  again  on  the 
pipe-line  trail  all  the  way — a  beautiful  and  never-to- 
be-forgotten  walk. 

The  sun  was  just  touching  the  tops  of  the  western 
mountains  when  they  started  down  Oak  Knoll.  The 
canyon  below,  already,  lay  in  the  shadow.  When 
they  reached  the  foot  of  the  trail,  it  was  twilight. 
Across  the  road,  by  a  small  streamlet — a  tributary  to 
Clear  Creek — a  party  of  huntsmen  were  making 
ready  to  spend  the  night.  The  voices  of  the  men  came 
clearly  through  the  gathering  gloom.  Under  the 
trees,  they  could  see  the  camp-fire's  ruddy  gleam. 
They  did  not  notice  the  man  who  was  standing,  half 
hidden,  in  the  bushes  beside  the  road,  near  the  spot 
where  the  trail  opens  into  it.  Silently,  the  man 
watched  them  as  they  turned  up  the  road  which  they 
would  follow  a  little  way  before  crossing  the  canyon 
to  Sibyl's  home.  Fifty  yards  farther  on,  they  met 
Brian  Oakley. 

"Howdy,  you  two,"  called  the  Ranger,  cheerily — 
without  stopping  his  horse.  "Rather  late  to-night, 
ain't  you  V9 

255 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOKLD 

"We'll  be  there  by  dark,"  called  the  artist.  And 
the  Hanger  passed  on. 

At  sound  of  the  mountaineer's  voice,  the  man  in 
the  bushes  drew  quickly  back.  The  officer's  trained 
eyes  caught  the  movement  in  the  brush,  and  he  leaned 
forward  in  the  saddle. 

A  moment  later,  the  man  reappeared  in  the  road, 
farther  down,  around  the  bend.  As  the  Ranger  ap- 
proached, he  was  hailed  by  a  boisterous,  "Hello, 
Brian !  better  stop  and  have  a  bite." 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Rutlidge  ?"  came  the  officer's 
greeting,  as  he  reined  in  his  horse.  "When  did  you 
land  in  the  hills?" 

"This  afternoon,"  answered  the  other.  "We're 
just  making  camp.  Come  and  meet  the  fellows.  You 
know  some  of  them." 

"Thanks,  not  to-night,"— returned  Brian  Oakley, 
— "deer  hunt,  I  suppose." 

"Yes — thought  we  would  be  in  good  time  for  the 
opening  of  the  season.  By  the  way,  do  you  happen  to 
know  where  Lagrange  and  that  artist  friend  of  his 
are  camped  ?" 

"In  that  bunch  of  sycamores  back  of  the  old 
orchard  down  there,"  answered  the  Ranger,  watching 
the  man's  face  keenly.  "I  just  passed  Mr.  King,  up 
the  road  a  piece." 

"That  so  ?  I  didn't  see  him  go  by,"  returned  the 
other.  "I  think  I'll  run  over  and  say  'hello'  to  La- 
grange,  in  the  morning.  We  are  only  going  as  far 
as  Burnt  Pine  to-morrow,  anyway." 

"Keep  your  eyes  open  for  an  escaped  convict,"  said 
the  officer,  casually.  "There's  one  ranging  some- 

256 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOELD 

where  in  here — came  in  about  a  month  ago.  He's 
likely  to  clean  out  your  camp.  So  long." 

"Perhaps  we'll  take  him  in  for  you,"  laughed  the 
other.  "Good  night."  He  turned  toward  the  camp- 
fire  under  the  trees,  as  the  officer  rode  away. 

"!N\)w  what  in  hell  did  that  fellow  want  to  lie  to 
me  like  that  for,"  said  Brian  Oakley  to  himself.  "He 
must  have  seen  King  and  Sibyl  as  they  came  down 
the  trail.  Max,  old  boy,  when  a  man  lies  deliberately, 
without  any  apparent  reason,  you  want  to  watch 
him." 


257 


CHAPTER  XXH 


SHADOWS  OF  COMING  EVENTS 

A.RON  KING  and  Conrad  Lagrange  were 
idling  in  their  camp,  after  breakfast  the 
next  morning,  when  Czar  turned  his  head, 
quickly,  in  a  listening  attitude.  With  a 
low  growl  that  signified  disapproval,  he 
moved  forward  a  step  or  two  and  stood 
stiffly  erect,  gazing  toward  the  lower  end  of  the 
orchard. 

"Some  one  coming,  Czar  ?"  asked  the  artist. 
The  dog  answered  with  another  growl,  while  the 
hair  on  his  neck  bristled  in  anger. 

"Some  one  we  don't  like,  heh!"  commented  the 
novelist.  "Or" — he  added  as  if  musing  upon  the 
animal's  instinct — "some  one  we  ought  not  to  like." 
A  bark  from  Czar  greeted  James  Rutlidge  who  at 
that  moment  appeared  at  the  foot  of  the  slope  leading 
up  to  their  camp. 

The  two  men — remembering  the  occasion  of  their 
visitor's  last  call  at  their  home  in  Fairlands,  when  he 
had  seen  Sibyl  in  the  studio — received  the  man  with 
courtesy,  but  with  little  warmth.  Czar  continued  to 
manifest  his  sentiments  until  rebuked  by  his  master. 
The  coolness  of  the  reception,  however,  in  no  way  dis- 
concerted James  Rutlidge;  who,  on  his  part,  rather 
overdid  his  assumption  of  pleasure  at  meeting  them 
again, 

258 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

Explaining  that  he  had  come  with  a  party  of 
friends  on  a  hunting  trip,  he  told  them  how  he  had 
met  Brian  Oakley,  and  so  had  learned  of  their  camp 
hidden  behind  the  old  orchard.  The  rest  of  his  party, 
he  said,  had  gone  on  up  the  canyon.  They  would 
stop  at  Burnt  Pine  on  Laurel  Creek,  where  he  could 
easily  join  them  before  night.  He  could  not  think, 
he  declared,  of  passing  so  near  without  greeting  his 
friends. 

"You  two  certainly  are  expert  when  it  comes  to 
finding  snug,  out-of-the-way  quarters,"  he  commented, 
searching  the  camp  and  the  immediate  surroundings 
with  a  careful  and,  ostensibly,  an  appreciative  eye. 
"A  thousand  people  might  pass  this  old,  deserted 
place  without  ever  dreaming  that  you  were  so  ideally 
hidden  back  here." 

As  he  finished  speaking,  his  roving  eye  came  to 
rest  upon  a  pair  of  gloves  that  Sibyl — the  last  time 
she  had  called — had  carelessly  left  lying  upon  a 
stump  close  by  a  giant  sycamore  where,  in  camp 
fashion,  the  rods  and  creels  and  guns  were  kept.  The 
artist  had  intended  to  return  the  gloves  the  day 
before,  together  with  a  book  of  trout-flies  which  the 
girl  had  also  forgotten ;  but,  in  his  eagerness  for  the 
day's  outing,  he  had  gone  off  without  them. 

The  observing  Conrad  Lagrange  did  not  fail  to 
note  that  James  Rutlidge  had  seen  the  telltale  gloves. 
Fixing  his  peculiar  eyes  upon  the  visitor,  he  asked 
abruptly,  with  polite  but  purposeful  interest,  after 
the  health  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Taine  and  Louise. 

The  faint  shadow  of  a  suggestive  smile  that  crossed 

259 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

the  heavy  features  of  James  Rutlidge,  as  he  turned 
his  gaze  from  the  gloves  to  meet  the  look  of  the  novel- 
ist, was  maddening. 

"The  old  boy  is  steadily  going  down,"  he  said  with- 
out feeling.  "The  doctors  tell  me  that  he  can't  last 
through  the  winter.  It'll  be  a  relief  to  everybody 
when  he  goes.  Mrs.  Taine  is  well  and  beautiful,  as 
always — remarkable  how  she  keeps  up  appearances, 
considering  her  husband's  serious  condition.  Louise 
is  quite  as  usual.  They  will  all  be  back  in  Fairlands 
in  another  month.  They  sent  regards  to  you  both — 
in  case  I  should  run  across  you." 

The  two  men  made  the  usual  conventional  replies, 
adding  that  they  were  returning  to  Fairlands  the  next 
day. 

"So  soon?"  exclaimed  their  visitor,  with  another 
meaning  smile.  "I  don't  see  how  you  can  think  of 
leaving  your  really  delightful  retreat.  I  understand 
you  have  such  charming  neighbors  too.  Perhaps 
though,  they  are  also  returning  to  the  orange  groves 
and  roses." 

Aaron  King's  face  flushed  hotly,  and  he  was  about 
to  reply  with  vigor  to  the  sneering  words,  when  Con- 
rad Lagrange  silenced  him  with  a  quick  look.  Ignor- 
ing the  reference  to  their  neighbors,  the  novelist 
replied  suavely  that  they  felt  they  must  return  to 
civilization  as  some  matters  in  connection  with  the 
new  edition  of  his  last  novel  demanded  his  attention, 
and  the  artist  wished  to  get  back  to  his  studio  and  to 
his  work. 

"Really,"  urged  Rutlidge,  mockingly,  "you  ought 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

not  to  go  down  now.  The  deer  season  opens  in  two 
days.  Why  not  join  our  party  for  a  hunt?  We 
would  be  delighted  to  have  you." 

They  were  coolly  thanking  him  for  the  invitation, 
— that,  from  the  tone  in  which  it  was  given,  was  so 
evidently  not  meant, — when  Czar,  with  a  joyful  bark, 
dashed  away  through  the  grove.  A  moment,  and  a 
clear,  girlish  voice  called  from  among  the  trees  that 
bordered  the  cienaga,  "Whoo-ee."  It  was  the  signal 
that  Sibyl  always  gave  when  she  approached  their 
camp. 

James  Kutlidge  broke  into  a  low  laugh  while 
Sibyl's  friends  looked  at  each  other  in  angry  con- 
sternation as  the  girl,  following  her  hail  and  accom- 
panied by  the  delighted  dog,  appeared  in  full  view; 
her  fishing-rod  in  hand,  her  creel  swung  over  her 
shoulder. 

The  girl's  embarrassment,  when,  too  late,  she  saw 
and  recognized  their  visitor,  was  pitiful.  As  she 
came  slowly  forward,  too  confused  to  retreat,  Rut- 
lidge  started  to  laugh  again,  but  Aaron  King,  with 
an  emphasis  that  checked  the  man's  mirth,  said  in  a 
low  tone,  "Stop  that !  Be  careful !" 

As  he  spoke,  the  artist  arose  and  with  Conrad  La- 
grange  went  forward  to  greet  Sibyl  in — as  nearly  as 
they  could — their  customary  manner. 

Formally,  Eutlidge  was  presented  to  the  girl ;  and, 
under  the  threatening  eyes  of  the  painter,  greeted  her 
with  no  hint  of  rudeness  in  his  voice  or  manner ;  say- 
ing courteously,  with  a  smile,  "I  have  had  the  pleas- 
ure of  Miss  Andres'  acquaintance  for — let  me  see — 


261 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

three  years  now,  is  it  not?"  he  appealed  to  her 
directly. 

"It  was  three  years  ago  that  I  first  saw  you,  sir," 
she  returned  coolly. 

"It  was  my  first  trip  into  the  mountains,  I  remem- 
ber," said  Rutlidge,  easily.  "I  met  you  at  Brian 
Oakley's  home," 

Without  replying,  she  turned  to  Aaron  King 
appealingly.  "I — I  left  my  gloves  and  fly-book.  I 
was  going  fishing  and  called  to  get  them." 

The  artist  gave  her  the  articles  with  a  word  of 
regret  for  having  so  carelessly  forgotten  to  return 
them  to  her.  With  a  simple  "good-by"  to  her  two 
friends,  but  without  even  a  glance  toward  their  caller, 
she  went  back  up  the  canyon,  in  the  direction  from 
which  she  had  come. 

When  the  girl  had  disappeared  among  the  trees, 
James  Rutlidge  said,  with  his  meaning  smile, 
"Really,  I  owe  you  an  apology  for  dropping  in  so 
unexpectedly.  I — " 

Conrad  Lagrange  interrupted  him,  curtly.  "No 
apology  is  due,  sir." 

"No  ?"  returned  Rutlidge,  with  a  rising  inflection 
and  a  drawling  note  in  his  voice  that  was  almost  too 
much  for  the  others.  "I  really  must  be  going,  any- 
way," he  continued.  "My  party  will  be  some  dis- 
tance ahead.  Sure  you  wouldn't  care  to  join  us?" 

"Thanks !  Sorry !  but  we  cannot  this  tima  Good 
of  you  to  ask  us,"  came  from  Aaron  King  and  the 
novelist. 

"Can't  say  that  I  blame  you,"  their  caller  returned. 
"The  fishing  used  to  be  fine  in  this  neighborhood. 

262 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

You  must  have  had  some  delightful  sport.  Don't 
blame  you  in  the  least  for  not  joining  our  stag  party. 
Delightful  young  woman,  that  Miss  Andres.  Charm- 
ing companion — either  in  the  mountains  or  in  civil- 
ization. Good-by — see  you  in  Fairlands,  later." 

When  he  was  out  of  hearing  the  two  men  relieved 
their  feelings  in  language  that  perhaps  it  would  be 
better  not  to  put  in  print. 

"And  the  worst  of  it  is,"  remarked  the  novelist, 
"it's  so  damned  dangerous  to  deny  something  that 
does  not  exist  or  make  explanations  in  answer  to 
charges  that  are  not  put  into  words." 

"I  could  scarcely  refrain  from  kicking  the  beast 
down  the  hill,"  said  Aaron  King,  savagely. 

"Which" — the  other  returned — "would  have  com- 
plicated matters  exceedingly,  and  would  have  accom- 
plished nothing  at  all.  For  the  girl's  sake,  store 
your  wrath  against  the  day  of  judgment  which,  if  I 
read  the  signs  aright,  is  sure  to  come." 


When  Sibyl  Andres  went  down  the  canyon  to  the 
camp  in  the  sycamores,  that  morning,  the  world,  to 
her,  was  very  bright.  Her  heart  sang  with  joyous 
freedom  amid  the  scenes  that  she  so  loved.  Care-free 
and  happy,  as  when,  in  the  days  of  her  girlhood,  she 
had  gone  to  visit  the  spring  glade,  she  still  was  con- 
scious of  a  deeper  joy  than  in  her  girlhood  she  had 
ever  known. 

When  she  returned  again  up  the  canyon,  all  the 
brightness  of  her  day  was  gone.  Her  heart  was 
heavy  with  foreboding  fear.  She  was  oppressed  with 

263 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOELD 

a  dread  of  some  impending  evil  which  she  could  not 
understand.  At  every  sound  in  the  mountain  wild- 
wood,  she  started.  Time  and  again,  as  if  expecting 
pursuit,  she  looked  over  her  shoulder — poised  like  a 
creature  of  the  woods  ready  for  instant  panic-stricken 
flight.  So,  without  pausing  to  cast  for  trout,  or  even 
to  go  down  to  the  stream,  she  returned  home;  where 
Myra  Willard,  seeing  her  come  so  early  and  empty 
handed,  wondered.  But  to  the  woman's  question, 
the  girl  only  answered  that  she  had  changed  her 
mind — that,  after  recovering  her  gloves  and  fly-book 
at  the  camp  of  their  friends,  she  had  decided  to  come 
home.  The  woman  with  the  disfigured  face,  knowing 
that  Aaron  King  was  leaving  the  hills  the  next  day, 
thought  that  she  understood  the  girl's  mood,  and 
wisely  made  no  comment. 

The  artist  and  Conrad  Lagrange  went  to  spend 
their  last  evening  in  the  hills  with  their  friends. 
Brian  Oakley,  too,  dropped  in.  But  neither  of  the 
three  men  mentioned  the  name  of  James  Rutlidge  in 
the  presence  of  the  women;  while  Sibyl  was,  appar- 
ently, again  her  own  bright  and  happy  self — carrying 
on  a  fanciful  play  of  words  with  the  novelist,  singing 
with  the  artist,  and  making  music  for  them  all  with 
her  violin.  But  before  the  evening  was  over,  Conrad 
Lagrange  found  an  opportunity  to  tell  the  Ranger 
of  the  incident  of  the  morning,  and  of  the  construc- 
tion that  James  Rutlidge  had  evidently  put  upora 
Sibyl's  call  at  the  camp.  Brian  Oakley, — thinking 
of  the  night  before,  and  how  the  man  must  have  seen 
the  artist  and  the  girl  coming  down  the  Oak  Knoll 
trail  in  the  twilight, — swore  softly  under  his  breath. 

264 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
OUTSIDE  THE  CANYON  GATES  AGAIN 


KING  and  Conrad  Lagrange  deter- 
mined to  go  back  from  the  mountains,  the 
way  they  had  come.     Said  the  novelist, 
"It  is  as  unseemly  to  rush  pell-mell  from 
an  audience  with  the  gods  as  it  is  to  enter 
their  presence  irreverently." 
To  which  the  artist  answered,  laughing,   "Even 
criminals  under  sentence  have,  at  least,  the  privilege 
of  going  to  their  prisons  reluctantly." 

So  they  went  down  from  the  mountains,  reverently 
and  reluctantly. 

Yee  Kee,  with  the  more  elaborate  equipment  of  the 
camp,  was  sent  on  ahead  by  wagon.  The  two  men, 
with  Croesus  packed  for  a  one  night  halt,  and  Czar, 
would  follow.  When  all  was  ready,  and  they  could 
neither  of  them  invent  any  more  excuses  for  linger- 
ing, Conrad  Lagrange  gave  the  word  to  the  burro  and 
they  set  out  —  down  the  little  slope  of  grassy  land; 
across  the  tiny  stream  from  the  cienaga;  around  the 
lower  end  of  the  old  orchard,  by  the  ancient  weed- 
grown  road  —  even  Czar  went  slowly,  with  low-hung 
head,  as  if  regretful  at  leaving  the  mountains  that 
he,  too,  in  his  dog  way,  loved. 

At  the  gate,  Aaron  King  asked  the  novelist  to  go 
on,  saying  that  he  would  soon  overtake  him.  It  was 

265 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

possible,  he  said,  that  he  might  have  left  something 
in  the  spring  glade.  He  thought  he  had  better  make 
sure.  Conrad  Lagrange,  assenting,  went  through  the 
gate  and  down  the  road,  with  the  four-footed  mem- 
bers of  the  party;  and  Czar  must  have  thought  that 
there  was  something  very  funny  about  old  Croesus 
that  morning,  from  the  way  his  master  laughed; 
when  they  were  safely  around  the  first  turn. 

There  was,  of  course,  no  material  thing  in  the 
spring  glade  that  the  artist  wanted.  He  knew  that — 
quite  as  well  as  his  laughing  friend.  Under  the 
mistletoe  oak,  at  the  top  of  the  bank,  he  paused, 
hesitating — as  one  will  often  pause  when  about  to 
enter  a  sacred  building.  Softly,  he  pushed  open  the 
old  gate,  as  he  might  have  pushed  open  the  door  of  a 
church.  Slowly,  reverently,  he  went  down  the  path ; 
baring  his  head  as  he  went.  He  did  not  search  for 
anything  that  he  might  have  left.  He  simply  stood 
for  a  few  minutes  under  the  gray-trunked  alders  that 
were  so  marked  by  the  loving  hands  of  long  ago  men 
and  maidens — beside  the  mint  bordered  spring  with 
the  scattered  stones  of  that  old  foundation — where, 
through  the  screen  of  boughs  and  vines  and  virgin's- 
bower,  the  sunlight  fell  as  through  the  traceries  of  a 
cathedral  window,  and  the  low,  deep  tones  of  the 
mountain  waters  came  like  the  music  of  a  great 
organ. 

It  is  likely  that  Aaron  King,  himself,  could  not, 
at  that  time,  have  told  why,  as  he  was  leaving  the 
hills,  he  had  paused  to  visit  once  more  the  spot 
where  Sibyl  Andres  had  brought  to  him  her  three 
gifts  from  the  mountains — where,  in  her  pure  inno- 

266 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

cence,  she  had  danced  before  him  the  dance  of  the 
mating  butterflies — and  where,  with  the  music  of  her 
violin,  she  had  saved  their  friendship  from  the  perils 
that  threatened  it — lifting  their  intimate  comrade- 
ship into  the  pure  atmosphere  of  the  higher  levels, 
even  as  she  had  shown  him  the  trails  that  lead  from 
the  lower  canyon  to  the  summits  and  peaks  of  the 
encircling  mountain  walls.  But  when  he  rejoined  his 
friend  there  was  something  in  his  face  that  prevented 
the  novelist  from  making  any  comment  in  a  laughing 
vein. 

As  the  two  men  passed  outward  through  the  can- 
yon gates  and,  looking  backward  as  they  went,  saw 
those  mighty  doors  "lose  silently  behind  them,  the 
artist  was  moved  by  emotions  that  were  strange  and 
new  to  the  mar  who,  two  months  before,  had  watched 
those  gates  open  to  receive  him.  This,  too,  is  true; 
as  that  man,  then,  knew,  but  did  not  know,  the  moun- 
tains ;  so  this  man,  now,  knew,  yet  still  did  not  know, 
himself. 

Where  the  road  crosses,  for  the  last  time,  the 
tumbling  stream  from  the  heart  of  the  hills,  they 
halted;  and  for  one  night  slept  again  at  the  foot  of 
the  mountains.  The  next  day  they  arrived  at 
their  little  home  in  the  orange  grove.  To  Aaron 
King,  it  seemed  that  they  had  been  away  for  years. 

When  the  traces  of  their  days  upon  the  road  had 
been  removed,  and  they  were  garbed  again  in  the 
conventional  costume  of  the  world ;  when  their  outfit 
had  been  put  away,  and  a  home  lound  for  patient 
Croesus ;  the  artist  went  to  his  studio.  The  afternoon 
passed  and  Yee  Kee  called  dinner;  but  Aaron  King 

267 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

did  not  come.  Then  Conrad  Lagrange  went  to  find 
him.  Softly,  the  older  man  pushed  open  the  studio 
door  to  see  the  painter  sitting  before  the  portrait  of 
Mrs.  Taine,  with  the  package  of  his  mother's  letters 
in  his  hand. 

Without  a  sound,  the  novelist  withdrew,  leaving 
the  door  ajar.  Going  to  the  corner  of  the  house,  he 
whistled  low,  and  in  answer,  Czar  come  bounding  to 
him  from  the  porch.  "Go  find  Aaron,  Czar,"  said 
the  man,  pointing  toward  the  studio.  "Go  find 
Aaron." 

Obediently,  with  waving  tail,  the  dog  trotted  off, 
and  pushing  open  the  door  entered  the  room ;  followed 
a  few  moments  later  by  his  master. 

Conrad  Lagrange  smiled  as  he  saw  that  the  easel 
was  without  a  canvas.  The  portrait  of  Mrs.  Taine 
was  turned  to  the  wall. 


268 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
JAMES  RUTLIDGE  MAKES  A  MISTAKE 

HEIST  Aaron  King  and  Conrad  Lagrange 
had  said,  "good-by,"  to  their  friends,  at 
Sibyl  Andres'  home,  that  evening;  and 
had  returned  to  spend  their  last  night  at 
the  camp  in  the  sycamores ;  the  girl's  mood 
was  again  the  mood  of  one  oppressed  by  a 
haunting,  foreboding  fear. 

Sibyl  could  not  have  expressed,  or  even  to  herself 
denned,  her  fear.  She  only  knew  that  in  the  pres- 
ence of  James  Rutlidge  she  was  frightened.  She  had 
tried  many  times  to  overcome  her  strange  antipathy ; 
for  Rutlidge,  until  that  day  in  the  studio,  had  never 
been  other  than  kind  and  courteous  in  his  persistent 
efforts  to  win  her  friendship.  Perhaps  it  was  the  im- 
pression left  by  the  memory  of  Myra  Willard's 
manner  at  the  time  of  their  first  meeting  with  him, 
three  years  before,  in  Brian  Oakley's  home;  perhaps 
it  was  because  the  woman  with  the  disfigured  face  had 
so  often  warned  her  against  permitting  her  slight 
acquaintance  with  Rutlidge  to  develop;  perhaps  it 
was  something  else — some  instinct,  possible,  only,  to 
one  of  her  pure,  unspoiled  nature — whatever  it  was, 
the  mountain  girl  who  was  so  naturally  unafraid, 
feared  this  man  who,  in  his  own  world,  was  an 
acknowledged  authority  upon  matters  of  the  highest 
spiritual  and  moral  significance. 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

That  night,  she  slept  but  little.  With  the  morning, 
every  nerve  demanded  action,  action.  She  felt  as 
though  if  she  could  not  spend  herself  in  physical 
exertion  she  would  go  mad.  Taking  her  lunch,  and 
telling  her  companion  that  she  was  going  for  a  good, 
full  day  with  the  trout;  she  was  starting  off,  when 
the  woman  called  her  back. 

"You  have  forgotten  Mr.  Oakley's  warning,  dear. 
You  are  not  to  go  unarmed,  you  know." 

"Oh,  bother  that  old  convict,  Brian  Oakley  is  so 
worried  about,"  cried  the  girl.  "I  don't  like  to  carry 
a  gun  when  I  am  fishing.  It's  only  an  extra  load." 
But,  never-the-less,  as  she  spoke,  she  went  back  to 
the  porch ;  where  Myra  Willard  handed  her  a  belt  of 
cartridges,  with  a  serviceable  Colt  revolver  in  the 
holster.  There  was  no  hint  of  awkwardness  when 
the  girl  buckled  the  belt  about  her  waist  and  settled 
the  holster  in  its  place  at  her  hip. 

"You  will  be  careful,  won't  you,  dear,"  said  the 
woman,  earnestly. 

Lifting  her  face  for  another  good-by  kiss,  the  girl 
answered,  "Of  course,  dear  mother  heart."  Then, 
with  a  laugh — "I'll  agree  to  shoot  the  first  man  I 
meet,  and  identify  him  afterwards — if  it  will  make 
you  easier  in  your  mind.  You  won't  worry,  will 
you?" 

Myra  Willard  smiled.  "Not  a  bit,  child.  I  know 
how  Brian  Oakley  loves  you,  and  he  says  that  he  has 
no  fear  for  you  if  you  are  armed.  He  takes  great 
chances  himself,  that  man,  but  he  would  send  us  back 
to  Fairlands,  in  a  minute,  if  he  thought  you  were  in 
any  danger  in  your  rambles." 

270 


THE  EYTSS  OF  THE  WORLD 

Beside  the  roaring  Clear  Creek,  Sibyl  seated  her- 
self upon  a  great  boulder — her  rod  and  flies  neglected 
— apparently  unmindful  of  the  purpose  that  had 
brought  her  to  the  stream.  Her  eyes  were  not  upon 
the  swirling  pool  at  her  feet,  but  were  lifted  to  a  spot, 
a  thousand  feet  up  on  Oak  Knoll,  where  she  knew  the 
pipe-line  trail  lay,  and  where  Croesus  had  made  the 
momentous  decision  that  had  resulted  in  her  com- 
radeship with  Aaron  King.  Following  the  canyon 
wall  with  her  eyes — as  though  in  her  mind  she  walked 
the  thread-like  path — from  Oak  Knoll  to  the  fire- 
break, a  mile  from  the  reservoir ;  her  gaze  then  traced 
the  crest  of  the  Galenas,  resting  finally  upon  that 
clump  of  pines  high  up  on  the  point  that  was  so 
clearly  marked  against  the  sky.  Once,  she  laid  aside 
her  rod,  and  slipped  the  creel  from  her  shoulder. 
But  even  as  she  set  out,  she  hesitated  and  turned 
back;  resolutely  taking  up  her  fishing-tackle  again, 
as  though,  angry  with  herself  for  her  state  of  mind, 
she  was  determined  to  indulge  no  longer  her  mood 
of  indecision. 

But  the  fishing  did  not  go  well.  To  properly  cast 
a  trout-fly,  one's  thoughts  must  be  upon  the  art.  A 
preoccupied  mind  and  wandering  attention  tends  to 
a  tangled  line,  a  snarled  leader,  and  all  sorts  of 
aggravating  complications.  Sibyl — usually  so  skill- 
ful at  this  most  delicate  of  sports — was  as  inaccurate 
and  awkward,  this  day,  as  the  merest  tyro.  The  many 
pools  and  falls  and  swirling  eddies  of  Clear  Creek 
held  for  her,  now,  memories  more  attractive,  by  far, 
than  the  wary  trout  they  sheltered.  The  familiar 

271 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

spots  she  had  known  since  childhood  were  haunted  by 
a  something  that  made  them  seem  new  and  strange. 

At  last, — thoroughly  angry  with  her  inability  to 
control  her  mood,  and  half  ashamed  of  the  thoughts 
that  forced  themselves  so  insistently  upon  her;  with 
her  nerves  and  muscles  craving  the  action  that  would 
bring  the  relief  of  physical  weariness, — she  deter- 
mined to  leave  the  more  familiar  ground,  for  the 
higher  and  less  frequented  waters  of  Fern  Creek. 
Climbing  out  of  the  canyon,  by  the  steep,  almost 
stair-like  trail  on  the  San  Bernardino  side,  she  walked 
hard  and  fast  to  reach  Lone  Cabin  by  noon.  But, 
before  she  had  finished  her  lunch,  she  decided  not  to 
fish  there,  after  all ;  but  to  go  on,  over  the  still  harder 
trail  to  Burnt  Pine  on  Laurel  Creek,  and,  returning 
to  the  lower  canyon  by  the  Laurel  trail,  to  work  down 
Clear  Creek  on  the  way  to  her  home,  in  the  late  after- 
noon and  twilight 

The  trail  up  the  almost  precipitous  wall  of  the 
gorge  at  Lone  Cabin,  and  over  the  mountain  spur 
to  Laurel  Creek,  is  one  that  calls  for  a  clear  head  and 
a  sure  foot.  It  is  not  a  path  for  the  city  bred  to  essay, 
save  with  the  ready  arm  of  a  guide.  But  the  hill- 
trained  muscles  and  nerves  of  Sibyl  Andres  gloried 
in  the  task.  The  cool-headed,  mountain  girl  enjoyed 
the  climb  from  which  her  city  sisters  would  have 
drawn  back  in  trembling  fear. 

Once,  at  a  point  perhaps  two-thirds  of  the  height 
to  the  top,  she  halted.  Her  ear  had  caught  a  slight 
noise  above  her  head,  as  a  few  pebbles  rolled  down 
the  almost  perpendicular  face  of  the  wall  and  bounded 


272 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOULD 

from  the  trail  where  she  stood,  into  the  depths  below. 
For  a  few  minutes,  the  girl,  on  the  little,  shelf-like 
path  that  was  scarcely  wider  than  the  span  of  her  two 
hands,  was  as  motionless  and  as  silent  as  the  cliff 
itself;  while,  with  her  face  turned  upward,  she 
searched  with  keen  eyes  the  rim  of  the  gorge;  her 
free,  right  hand  resting  upon  the  butt  of  the  revolver 
at  her  hip.  Then  she  went  on — not  timidly,  but 
neither  carelessly;  not  in  the  least  frightened,  but 
still, — knowing  that  the  spot  was  far  from  the  more 
frequented  paths, — with  experienced  care. 

As  her  head  and  shoulders  came  above  the  rim,  she 
paused  again,  to  search  with  careful  eyes  the  vicinity 
of  the  trail  that  from  this  point  leads  for  a  little  way 
down  the  knife-like  ridge  of  the  spur,  and  then,  by 
easier  stages,  around  the  shoulder  and  the  flank  of 
the  mountain,  to  Burnt  Pine  Camp.  When  no  living 
object  met  her  eye,  and  she  could  hear  no  sound  save 
the  lonely  wind  in  the  pines  and  the  faint  murmur 
of  the  stream  in  the  gorge  below,  she  took  the  few 
steps  that  yet  remained  of  the  climb,  and  seated  her- 
self for  a  moment's  well-earned  rest.  Some  small  ani- 
mal, she  told  herself, — a  squirrel  or  a  wood-rat,  per- 
haps,— frightened  at  her  approach,  and  scurrying 
hastily  to  cover,  had  dislodged  the  pebbles  with  the 
slight  noise  that  she  had  heard. 

From  where  she  sat  with  her  back  against  the 
trunk  of  a  great  pine,  she  could  see — far  below,  and 
beyond  the  immediate  spurs  and  shoulders  of  the 
range,  on  the  farther  side  of  the  gorge  out  of  which 
she  had  just  come — the  lower  end  of  Clear  Creek 


273 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

canyon,  and,  miles  away,  under  the  blue  haze  of  the 
distance,  the  dark  squares  of  the  orange  groves  of 
Fairlands. 

Somewhere  between  those  canyon  gates  and  the 
little  city  in  the  orange  groves,  the  girl  knew  that 
Aaron  King  and  his  friend  were  making  their  way 
back  to  the  world  of  men.  With  her  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  distant  scene,  as  if  striving  for  a  wholly  im- 
possible strength  of  vision  to  mark  the  tiny,  moving 
spots  that  she  knew  were  there,  the  girl  upon  the  high 
rim  of  the  wild  and  lonely  mountain  gorge  was  lost 
to  her  surroundings,  in  an  effort,  as  vain,  to  see  her 
comrade  of  the  weeks  just  past,  in  the  years  that  were 
to  come.  'Would  the  friendship  born  in  the  hills 
endure  in  the  world  beyond  the  canyon  gates  ?  Could 
it  endure  away  from  those  scenes  that  had  given  it 
birth  ?  Was  it  possible  for  a  fellowship,  established 
in  the  free  atmosphere  of  the  mountains,  to  live  in  the 
lower  altitude  of  Fairlands  ?  Sibyl  Andres, — as  she 
sat  there,  alone  in  the  hills  she  loved, — in  her  heart 
of  hearts,  answered  her  own  questions,  "Wo."  But 
still  she  searched  the  years  to  come — even  as  her  eyes 
so  futilely  searched  the  distant  landscape  beyond  the 
mighty  gates  that  seemed,  now,  to  shut  her  in  from 
that  world  to  which  Aaron  King  was  returning. 

The  girl  was  aroused  from  her  abstraction  by  a 
sound  behind  her  and  a  little  to  the  left  of  the  tree 
against  which  she  was  leaning.  In  a  flash,  she  was 
on  her  feet. 

James  Rutlidge  stood  a  few  steps  away.  He  had 
been  approaching  her  as  she  sat  under  the  tree;  but 
when  she  sprang  to  her  feet  and  faced  him,  he  halted. 

274 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOKLD 

Lifting  his  hat,  he  greeted  her  with  easy  assurance ;  a 
confident,  triumphant  smile  upon  his  heavy  features. 

White-faced  and  trembling,  the  mountain  girl — 
who,  a  few  moments  before,  had  been  so  unafraid — 
stood  shrinking  before  this  cultured  representative  of 
the  arts.  Keturning  his  salutation,  she  was  starting 
hurriedly  away  down  the  trail,  when  he  said,  "Wait. 
Why  be  in  such  a  hurry  ?" 

As  if  against  her  will,  she  paused.  "It  is  growing 
late,"  she  faltered;  "I  must  go." 

He  laughed.  "I  will  go  with  you  presently.  Don't 
be  afraid."  Coming  forward,  with  an  air  of  making 
himself  very  much  at  home,  he  placed  his  rifle  against 
the  tree  where  she  had  been  sitting.  Then,  as  if  to 
calm  her  fears,  he  continued,  "I  am  camped  at  Burnt 
Pine,  with  a  party  of  friends.  I  was  up  here  looking 
for  deer  sign  when  I  noticed  you  below,  at  the  cabin 
there.  I  was  just  starting  down  to  you,  when  I  saw 
that  you  were  going  to  come  up ;  so  I  waited.  Beau- 
tiful spot — this — don't  you  think  ? — so  out  of  the 
way,  too.  Just  the  place  for  a  quiet  little  visit." 

As  the  man  spoke,  he  was  eyeing  her  in  a  way  that 
only  served  to  confuse  and  frighten  her  the  more. 
Murmuring  some  inaudible  reply,  she  again  started 
to  go.  But  again  he  said,  peremptorily,  "Wait." 
And  again,  as  if  against  her  will,  she  paused.  "If 
you  have  no  scruples  about  wandering  over  the  moun- 
tains, alone  with  that  artist  fellow,  I  do  not  see  why 
you  should  hesitate  to  favor  me." 

The  man's  words  were,  undoubtedly,  prompted  by 
what  he  firmly  believed  to  be  the  nature  of  the  rela- 
tion between  the  girl  and  Aaron  King — a  belief  for 

275 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

which  he  had,  to  his  mind,  sufficient  evidence.  But 
Sibyl  had  no  understanding  of  his  meaning.  In  the 
innocence  of  her  pure  mind,  the  purport  of  his  words 
was  utterly  lost.  Her  very  fear  of  the  man  was  not 
a  reasoning  fear,  but  the  instinctive  shrinking  of  a 
nature  that  had  never  felt  the  unclean  touch  of  the 
world  in  which  James  Rutlidge  habitually  moved. 
It  was  this  very  unreasoning  element  in  her  emotions 
that  made  her  always  so  embarrassed  in  the  man's 
presence.  It  was  because  she  did  not  understand  her 
fear  of  him,  that  the  girl,  usually  so  capable  of  tak- 
ing her  own  part,  was,  in  his  presence,  so  helpless. 

James  Rutlidge,  by  the  intellectual,  moral,  and 
physical  atmosphere  in  which  he  lived,  was  made 
wholly  incapable  of  understanding  the  nature  of 
Sibyl  Andres.  Secure  in  the  convictions  of  his  own 
debased  mind,  as  to  her  relation  to  the  artist;  and 
misconstruing  her  very  manner  in  his  presence;  he 
was  not  long  in  putting  his  proposal  into  words  that 
she  could  not  fail  to  understand. 

When  she  did  grasp  his  meaning,  her  fears  and  her 
trembling  nervousness  gave  place  to  courageous  in- 
dignation and  righteous  anger  that  found  expression 
in  scathing  words  of  denunciation. 

The  man,  still,  could  not  understand  the  truth  of 
the  situation.  To  him,  there  was  nothing  more  in  her 
refusal  than  her  preference  for  the  artist.  That  this 
young  woman — to  him,  an  unschooled  girl  of  the 
hills — whom  he  had  so  long  marked  as  his  owny 
should  give  herself  to  another,  and  so  scornfully  turn 
from  him,  was  an  affront  that  he  could  not  brook. 
The  very  vigor  of  her  wrath,  as  she  stood  before  him, 

276 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

— her  eyes  bright,  her  cheeks  flushed,  and  her  beau- 
tiful body  quivering  with  the  vehemence  of  her 
passionate  outburst, — only  served  to  fan  the  flame 
of  his  desire;  while  her  stinging  words  provoked  his 
bestial  mind  to  an  animal-like  rage.  With  a  mut- 
tered oath  and  a  threat,  he  started  toward  her. 

But  the  woman  who  faced  him  now,  with  full 
understanding,  was  very  different  from  the  timid, 
frightened  girl  who  had  not  at  first  understood.  With 
a  business-like  movement  that  was  the  result  of  Brian 
Oakley's  careful  training,  her  hand  dropped  to  her 
hip  and  was  raised  again. 

James  Rutlidge  stopped,  as  though  against  an  iron 
bar.  In  the  blue  eyes  that  looked  at  him,  now,  over 
the  dark  barrel  of  the  revolver,  he  read  no  uncertainty 
of  purpose.  The  small  hand  that  had  drawn  the 
weapon  with  such  ready  swiftness,  was  as  steady  as 
though  at  target  practice.  Instinctively,  the  man 
half  turned,  throwing  up  his  arm  as  if  to  shield  his 
face  from  a  menacing  blow.  "For  God's  sake,"  he 
gasped,  "put  that  down." 

In  truth,  James  Rutlidge  was  nearer  death,  at  that 
instant,  than  he  had  ever  been  before. 

Drawing  back  a  few  fearful  paces,  his  hands  still 
uplifted,  he  said  again,  "Put  it  down,  I  tell  you. 
Don't  you  see  I'm  not  going  to  touch  you  ?  You  are 
crazy.  You  might  kill  me." 

Her  words  came  cold  and  collected,  expressing, 
together  with  her  calm  manner,  perfect  self- 
possession.  "If  you  can  give  any  good  reason  why  I 
should  not  kill  you,  I  will  let  you  go." 

277 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

The  man  was  carefully  drawing  backward  toward 
the  tree  against  which  he  had  placed  his  rifle. 

She  watched  him,  with  a  disconcerting  smile. 
"You  may  as  well  stop  now,"  she  said,  in  those  even, 
composed  tones.  "I  shall  fire,  the  moment  you  are 
within  reach  of  your  gun." 

He  halted  with  a  gesture  of  despair ;  his  face  livid 
with  fear  at  her  apparent  indecision  as  to  his  fate. 

Presently,  she  spoke  again.  "Don't  worry.  I'm 
not  going  to  kill  you — unless  you  force  me  to — which 
I  assure  you  will  not  be  at  all  difficult  for  you  to  do. 
Move  down  the  trail  until  I  tell  you  to  stop."  She 
indicated  the  direction,  along  the  ridge  of  the  moun- 
tain spur. 

He  obeyed. 

"That  will  do,"  she  said,  when  he  was  some  twenty 
paces  away. 

He  stopped,  turning  to  face  her  again. 

Picking  up  his  Winchester,  she  skillfully  and 
rapidly  threw  all  of  the  shells  out  of  the  magazine. 
Then,  covering  him  again  with  her  own  weapon,  she 
went  a  few  steps  closer  and  threw  the  empty  rifle  at 
his  feet.  "Now,"  she  said,  "put  that  gun  over  your 
left  shoulder,  and  go  on  ahead  of  me  down  the  trail. 
If  you  try  to  dodge  or  run,  or  if  you  change  the 
position  of  your  rifle,  I'll  kill  you." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  ?"  he  asked. 

"I'm  going  to  take  you  down  to  your  camp  at 
Burnt  Pine." 

James  Rutlidge,  pale  with  rage  and  shame,  stood 
still.  "You  may  as  well  kill  me,"  he  said.  "I  will 
never  go  into  camp,  this  way." 

278 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

"Don't  be  uneasy,"  she  returned.  "I  am  no  more 
anxious  for  the  world  to  know  of  this,  than  you  are. 
Do  as  I  say.  When  we  come  within  sight  of  your 
camp,  or  if  we  meet  any  one,  I  will  put  up  my  gun 
and  we  will  go  on  together.  That's  why  I  am  per- 
mitting you  to  carry  your  rifle." 

So  they  went  down  the  mountainside — the  man 
with  his  empty  rifle  over  his  shoulder;  the  girl  fol- 
lowing, a  few  paces  in  the  rear,  with  ready  weapon. 

When  they  had  come  within  sight  of  the  camp, 
James  Rutlidge  said,  "There's  some  one  there." 

"I  see,"  returned  Sibyl,  slipping  her  gun  in  its 
holster  and  stepping  forward  beside  her  companion. 
And  there  was  a  note  of  glad  relief  in  her  voice,  for 
it  was  Brian  Oakley  who  was  bending  over  the  camp- 
fire.  "Come,"  she  continued  to  her  companion,  "and 
act  as  though  nothing  had  happened." 

The  Ranger,  on  his  way  down  from  somewhere  in 
the  vicinity  of  San  Gorgonio,  had  stopped  at  the 
hunters'  camp  for  a  belated  dinner.  Finding  no  one 
at  home,  he  had  started  a  fire,  and  had  helped  himself 
to  coffee  and  bacon.  He  was  just  concluding  his 
appropriated  meal,  when  Sibyl  and  James  Rutlidge 
arrived. 

In  a  few  words,  the  girl  explained  to  her  friend, 
that  she  was  on  her  way  over  the  trail  from  Lone 
Cabin,  and  had  accidentally  met  Mr.  Rutlidge  who 
had  accompanied  her  as  far  as  the  camp.  James 
Rutlidge  had  little  to  say  beyond  assuring  the  Ranger 
of  his  welcome;  and  very  soon,  the  officer  and  the 
girl  set  out  on  their  way  down  the  Laurel  trail  to 
Clear  Creek  canyon.  As  they  went,  Sibyl's  old  friend 

279 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

asked  not  a  few  questions  about  her  meeting  with 
James  Rutlidge;  but  the  girl,  walking  ahead  in  the 
narrow  trail,  evaded  him,  and  was  glad  that  he  could 
not  see  her  f  aca 

Sibyl  had  spoken  the  literal  truth  when  she  said  to 
Rutlidge,  that  she  did  not  want  any  one  to  know  of 
the  incident.  She  felt  ashamed  and  humiliated  at 
the  thought  of  telling  even  her  father's  old  comrade 
and  friend.  She  knew  Brian  Oakley  too  well  to 
have  any  doubts  as  to  what  would  happen  if  he  knew 
how  the  man  had  approached  her,  and  she  shrank 
from  the  inevitable  outcome.  She  wished  only  to 
forget  the  whole  affair,  and,  as  quickly  as  possible, 
turned  the  conversation  into  other  and  safer  channels. 

The  Ranger  could  not  stop  at  the  house  with  her, 
but  must  go  on  down  the  canyon,  to  the  Station.  So 
the  girl  returned  to  Myra  Willard,  alone ;  and,  to  the 
woman's  surprise,  for  the  second  time,  with  an  empty 
creel. 

Sibyl  explained  her  failure  to  bring  home  a  catch 
of  trout,  with  the  simple  statement  that  she  had  not 
fished;  and  then — to  her  companion's  amazement — 
burst  into  tears;  begging  to  return  at  once  to  their 
little  home  in  Fairlands. 

Myra  Willard  thought  that  she  understood,  better 
than  the  girl  herself,  why,  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life,  Sibyl  wished  to  leave  the  mountains.  Perhaps 
the  woman  with  the  disfigured  face  was  right. 


280 


CHAPTEK  XXV 
ON  THE  PIPE-LINE  TRAIL 

AMES  BUTLIDGE  spent  the  day  follow- 
ing his  experience  with  Sibyl  Andres,  in 
camp.  His  companions  very  quickly  felt 
his  sullen,  ugly  mood,  and  left  him  to  his 
own  thoughts. 

The  manner  in  which  Sibyl  received  his 
advances  had  in  no  way  changed  the  man's  mind  as 
to  the  nature  of  her  relation  to  Aaron  King.  To 
one  of  James  Rutlidge's  type, — schooled  in  the  intel- 
lectual, moral  and  esthetic  tenets  of  his  class, — it 
was  impossible  to  think  of  the  companionship  of  the 
artist  and  the  girl  in  any  other  light.  If  he  had 
even  considered  the  possibility  of  a  clean,  pure  com- 
radeship existing  between  them — under  all  the  cir- 
cumstances of  their  friendship  as  he  had  seen  them 
in  the  studio,  on  the  trail  at  dusk,  and  in  the  artist's 
camp — he  would  have  answered  himself  that  Aaron 
King  was  not  such  a  fool  as  to  fail  to  take  advantage 
of  his  opportunities.  The  humiliation  of  his  pride, 
and  his  rage  at  being  so  ignominiously  checked  by 
the  girl  whom  he  had  so  long  endeavored  to  win, 
served  only  to  increase  his  desire  for  her.  Sibyl's 
resolute  spirit,  and  vigorous  beauty,  when  aroused  by 
him,  together  with  her  unexpected  opposition  to  his 
advances,  were  as  fuel  to  the  flame  of  his  passion. 

281 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

His  day  of  sullen  brooding  over  the  matter  did  not 
improve  his  temper ;  and  the  next  morning  his  friends 
were  relieved  to  see  him  setting  out  alone,  with  rifle 
and  field-glass  and  lunch.  Ostensibly  starting  in  the 
direction  of  the  upper  Laurel  Creek  country  he 
doubled  back,  as  soon  as  he  was  out  of  sight  of  camp, 
and  took  the  trail  leading  down  to  Clear  Creek 
canyon. 

It  could  not  be  said  that  the  man  had  any  definite 
purpose  in  mind.  He  was  simply  yielding  in  a  pur- 
poseless way  to  his  mood,  which,  for  the  time  being, 
could  find  no  other  expression.  The  remote  chance 
that  some  opportunity  looking  toward  his  desire 
might  present  itself,  led  him  to  seek  the  scenes  where 
such  an  opportunity  would  be  most  likely  to  occur. 

Crossing  the  canyon  above  the  Company  Head- 
work,  he  came  into  the  pipe-line  trail  at  a  point  a 
little  back  from  the  main  wagon  road  and,  an  hour 
later,  reached  the  place  on  Oak  Knoll  where  the 
Government  trail  leads  down  into  the  canyon  below, 
and  where  Aaron  King  and  Conrad  Lagrange  had 
committed  themselves  to  the  judgment  of  Croesus. 
Here  he  left  the  trail,  and  climbed  to  a  point  on  a 
spur  of  the  mountain,  from  which  he  could  see  the 
path  for  some  distance  on  either  side  and  below,  and 
from  which  his  view  of  the  narrow  valley  was  unob- 
structed. Comfortably  seated,  with  his  back  against 
a  rock,  he  adjusted  his  field-glass  and  trained  it  upon 
the  little  spot  of  open  green — marked  by  the  giant 
sycamores,  the  dark  line  of  cedars,  and  the  half  hid- 
den house — where  he  knew  that  Sibyl  Andres  and 
Myra  Willard  were  living. 

282 


THE  EYES  OF  THE   WOELD 

]STo  sooner  had  he  focused  the  powerful  glass  upon 
the  scene  that  so  interested  him,  than  he  uttered  a  low 
exclamation.  The  two  women,  surrounded  by  their 
luggage  and  camp  equipment,  were  sitting  on  the 
porch  with  Brian  Oakley ;  waiting,  evidently,  for  the 
wagon  that  was  crossing  the  creek  toward  the  house. 
It  was  clear  to  the  man  on  the  mountainside,  that 
Sibyl  Andres  and  the  woman  with  the  disfigured  face 
were  returning  to  Fairlands. 

For  some  time,  James  Kutlidge  sat  watching,  with 
absorbing  interest,  the  unconscious  people  in  the 
canyon  below.  Once,  he  turned  for  a  brief  glance 
at  the  grove  of  sycamores  behind  the  old  orchard, 
farther  down  the  creek.  The  camp  of  Conrad 
Lagrange  and  Aaron  King  was  no  longer  there. 
Quickly  he  fixed  his  gaze  again  upon  Sibyl  and  her 
friends.  Presently, — as  one  will  when  looking  long 
through  a  field-glass  or  telescope, — he  lowered  his 
hands,  to  rest  his  eyes  by  looking,  unaided,  at  the 
immediate  objects  in  the  landscape  before  him.  At 
that  moment,  the  figure  of  a  man  appeared  on  the 
near-by  trail  below.  It  was  a  pitiful  figure — ill- 
kempt,  ragged,  half-starved,  haggard-faced. 

Creeping  feebly  along  the  lonely  little  path — with- 
out seeing  the  man  on  the  mountainside  above — 
crouching  as  he  walked  with  a  hunted,  fearful  air — 
the  poor  creature  moved  toward  the  point  of  the  spur 
around  which  the  trail  led  beneath  the  spot  where 
Eutlidge  sat. 

As  the  man  on  the  trail  drew  nearer,  the  watcher 
on  the  rocks  above  involuntarily  glanced  toward  the 


283 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

distant  Forest  Ranger;  then  back  to  the — as  he 
rightly  guessed — escaped  convict. 

There  are,  no  doubt,  many  moments  in  the  life  of 
a  man  like  James  Rutlidge  when,  however  bad  or 
dominated  by  evil  influences  he  may  be,  he  feels 
strongly  the  impulse  of  pity  and  the  kindly  desire  to 
help.  Undoubtedly,  James  Rutlidge  inherited  from 
his  father  those  tendencies  that  made  him  easily  ruled 
by  his  baser  passions.  His  character  was  as  truly  the 
legitimate  product  of  the  age,  of  the  social  environ- 
ment, and  of  the  thought  that  accepts  such  characters. 
What  he  might  have  been  if  better  born,  or  if  schooled 
in  an  atmosphere  of  moral  and  intellectual  integrity, 
is  an  idle  speculation.  He  was  what  his  inheritance 
and  his  life  had  made  him.  He  was  not  without  im- 
pulses for  good.  The  pitiful,  hunted  creature,  creep- 
ing so  wearily  along  the  trail,  awoke  in  this  man  of 
the  accepted  culture  of  his  day  a  feeling  of  compas- 
sion, and  aroused  in  him  a  desire  to  offer  assistance. 
For  the  legal  aspect  of  the  case,  James  Rutlidge  had 
all  the  indifference  of  his  kind,  who  imbibe  contempt 
for  law  with  their  mother's  milk.  For  the  moment  he 
hesitated.  Then,  as  the  figure  below  passed  from  his 
sight,  under  the  point  of  the  spur,  he  slipped  quietly 
down  the  mountainside,  and,  a  few  minutes  later,  met 
the  convict  face  to  face. 

At  the  leveled  rifle  and  the  sharp  command, 
"Hands  up,"  the  poor  fellow  halted  with  a  gesture 
of  tragic  despair.  An  instant  they  stood;  then  the 
hunted  one  turned  impulsively  toward  the  canyon 
that,  here,  lies  almost  a  sheer  thousand  feet  below. 


284 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOULD 

James  Rutlidge  spoke  sharply.  "Don't  do  that. 
I'm  not  an  officer.  I  want  to  help  you." 

The  convict  turned  his  hunted,  fearful,  starving 
face  in  doubtful  bewilderment  toward  the  speaker. 

The  man  with  the  gun  continued,  "I  got  the  drop 
on  you  to  prevent  accidents — until  I  could  explain 
— that's  all."  He  lowered  the  rifle. 

The  other  went  a  staggering  step  forward.  "You 
mean  that  ?"  he  said  in  a  harsh,  incredulous  whisper. 
"You — you're  not  playing  with  me  ?" 

"Why  should  I  want  to  play  with  you  ?"  returned 
the  other,  kindly.  "Come,  let's  get  off  the  trail.  I 
have  something  to  eat,  up  there."  He  led  the  way 
back  to  the  place  where  he  had  left  his  lunch. 

Dropping  down  upon  the  ground,  the  starving  man 
seized  the  offered  food  with  an  animal-like  cry ;  feed- 
ing noisily,  with  the  manner  of  a  famished  beast. 
The  other  watched  with  mingled  pity  and  disgust. 

Presently,  in  stammering,  halting  phrases,  but  in 
words  that  showed  no  lack  of  education,  the  wretched 
creature  attempted  to  apologize  for  his  unseemly 
eagerness,  and  endeavored  to  thank  his  benefactor. 
"I  suppose,  sir,  there  is  no  use  trying  to  deny  my 
identity,"  he  said,  when  James  Rutlidge  had  again 
assured  him  of  his  kindly  interest. 

"Not  at  all,"  agreed  the  other,  "and,  so  far  as  I 
am  concerned,  there  is  no  reason  why  you  should." 

"Just  what  do  you  mean  by  that,  sir  ?"  questioned 
the  convict. 

"I  mean  that  I  am  not  an  officer  and  have  no 
reason  in  the  world  for  turning  you  over  to  them.  I 


285 


THL  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

saw  you  coming  along  the  trail  down  there  and,  of 
course,  could  not  help  noticing  your  condition  and 
guessing  who  you  were.  To  me,  you  are  simply  a 
poor  devil  who  has  gotten  into  a  tight  hole,  and  I 
want  to  help  you  out  a  bit,  that's  all." 

The  convict  turned  his  eyes  despairingly  toward 
the  canyon  below,  as  he  answered,  "I  thank  you,  sir, 
but  it  would  have  been  better  if  you  had  not.  Your 
help  has  only  put  the  end  off  for  a  few  hours.  They've 
got  me  shut  in.  I  can  keep  away  from  them,  up  here 
in  the  mountains,  but  I  can't  get  out.  I  won't  go 
back  to  that  hell  they  call  prison  though — I  won't." 
There  was  no  mistaking  his  desperate  purpose. 

James  Rutlidge  thought  of  that  quick  movement 
toward  the  edge  of  the  trail  and  the  rocky  depth 
below.  "You  don't  seem  such  a  bad  sort,  at  heart," 
he  said  invitingly. 

"I'm  not,"  returned  the  other,  "I've  been  a  fool — 
a  miserably  weak  fool — but  I've  had  my  lesson- 
only — I  have  had  it  too  late." 

While  the  man  was  speaking,  James  Rutlidge  was 
thinking  quickly.  As  he  had  been  moved,  at  first, 
by  a  spirit  of  compassion  to  give  temporary  assistance 
to  the  poor  hunted  creature,  he  was  now  prompted  to 
offer  more  lasting  help — providing,  of  course,  that  he 
could  do  so  without  too  great  a  risk  to  his  own  con- 
venience. The  convict's  hopeless  condition,  his 
despairing  purpose,  and  his  evident  wish  to  live  free 
from  the  past,  all  combined  to  arouse  in  the  other 
a  desire  to  aid  him.  But  while  that  truly  benevolent 
inclination  was,  in  his  consciousness,  unmarred  with 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOELD 

sinister  motive  of  any  sort;  still,  deeper  than  the 
impulse  for  good  in  James  Rutlidge's  nature  lay  those 
dominant  instincts  and  passions  that  were  his  by 
inheritance  and  training.  The  brutal  desire,  the 
mood  and  purpose  that  had  brought  him  to  that  spot 
where  with  the  aid  of  his  glass  he  could  watch  Sibyl 
Andres,  were  not  denied  by  his  impulse  to  kindly 
service.  Under  all  his  thinking,  as  he  considered 
how  he  could  help  the  convict  to  a  better  life,  there 
was  the  shadowy  suggestion  of  a  possible  situation, 
where  a  man  like  the  one  before  him — wholly  in  his 
power  as  this  man  would  be — might  be  of  use  to  him 
in  furthering  his  own  purpose — the  purpose  that  had 
brought  about  their  meeting. 

Studying  the  object  of  his  pity,  he  said  slowly,  "I 
suppose  the  most  of  us  are  as  deserving  of  punishment 
as  the  majority  of  those  who  actually  get  it.  One 
way  or  another,  we  are  all  trying  to  escape  the 
penalty  for  our  wrong-doing.  What  if  I  should  help 
you  out — make  it  possible  for  you  to  live  like  other 
men  who  are  safe  from  the  law?  What  would  you 
do  if  I  were  to  help  you  to  your  freedom  ?" 

The  hunted  man  became  incoherent  in  his  pleading 
for  a  chance  to  prove  the  sincerity  of  his  wish  to  live 
an  orderly,  respectable,  and  honest  life. 

"You  have  a  safe  hiding  place  here  in  the  moun- 
tains ?"  asked  Rutlidge. 

"Yes ;  a  little  hut,  hidden  in  a  deep  gorge,  over  on 
the  Cold  Water.  I  could  live  there  a  year  if  I  had 
supplies." 

James  Rutlidge  considered.    "I've  got  it !"  he  said 


287 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

at  last.  "Listen !  There  must  be  some  peak,  at  the 
Cold  Water  end  of  this  range,  from  which  you  can 
see  Fairlands  as  well  as  the  Galena  Valley." 

"Yes,"  the  other  answered  eagerly. 

"And,"  continued  Rutlidge,  "there  is  a  good  'auto' 
road  up  the  Galena  Valley.  One  could  get,  I  should 
think,  to  a  point  within — say  nine  hours  of  your 
camp.  Do  you  know  anything  about  the  heliograph  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  man,  his  face  brightening.  "That 
is,  I  understand  the  general  principle — that  it's  a 
method  of  signaling  by  mirror  flashes." 

"Good!  This  is  my  plan.  I  will  meet  you  to- 
morrow on  the  Laurel  Creek  trail,  where  it  turns  off 
from  the  creek  toward  San  Gorgonio.  You  know  the 
spot?" 

"Yes." 

"We  will  go  around  the  head  of  Clear  Creek,  on 
the  divide  between  this  canyon  and  the  Cold  Water, 
to  some  peak  in  the  Galenas  from  which  we  can  see 
Fairlands;  and  where,  with  the  field-glass,  we  can 
pick  out  some  point  at  the  upper  end  of  Galena 
Valley,  that  we  can  both  find  later." 

"I  understand." 

"When  I  get  back  to  Fairlands,  I  will  make  a 
night  trip  in  the  'auto'  to  that  point,  with  supplies. 
You  will  meet  me  there.  The  day  before  I  make  the 
trip,  I'll  signal  you  by  mirror  flashes  that  I  am  com- 
ing ;  and  you  will  answer  from  the  peak.  We'll  agree 
on  the  time  of  day  and  the  signals  to-morrow.  When 
you  have  kept  close,  long  enough  for  your  beard  and 
hair  to  grow  out  well,  everybody  will  have  given  you 
up  for  dead  or  gone.  Then  I  will  take  you  down  and 

288 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

give  you  a  job  in  an  orange  grove.  There's  a  little 
house  there  where  you  can  live.  You  won't  need  to 
show  yourself  down-town  and,  in  time,  you  will  be 
forgotten.  I'll  bring  you  enough  food  to-morrow  to 
last  you  until  I  can  return  to  town  and  can  get  back 
on  the  first  night  trip." 

The  man  who  left  James  Rutlidge  a  few  minutes 
later,  after  trying  brokenly  to  express  his  gratitude, 
was  a  creature  very  different  from  the  poor,  fright- 
ened, hunted,  starving,  despairing,  wretch  that  Rut- 
lidge  had  halted  an  hour  before.  What  that  man  was 
to  become,  would  depend  almost  wholly  upon  his 
benefactor. 

When  the  man  was  gone,  James  Rutlidge  again 
took  up  his  field-glass.  The  old  home  of  Sibyl 
Andres  was  deserted.  While  he  had  been  talking 
with  the  convict,  the  girl  and  Myra  Willard  had 
started  on  their  way  back  to  Fairlands. 

With  a  peculiar  smile  upon  his  heavy  features,  the 
man  slipped  the  glass  into  its  case,  and,  with  a  long, 
slow  look  over  the  scene,  set  out  on  his  way  to  rejoin 
his  friends. 


289 


CHAPTEK  XXVI 
I  WANT  YOU  JUST  AS  YOU  ARE 

I  HE  evening  of  that  day  after  their  return 
from  the  mountains,  when  Conrad  La- 
grange  had  found  Aaron  King  so  absorbed 
in  his  mother's  letters,  the  artist  continued 
in  his  silent,  preoccupied,  mood.  The 
next  morning,  it  was  the  same.  Refusing 
every  attempt  of  his  friend  to  engage  him  in  conver- 
sation, he  answered  only  with  absent-minded  mono- 
syllables; until  the  novelist,  declaring  that  the 
painter  was  fit  company  for  neither  beast  nor  man, 
left  him  alone ;  and  went  off  somewhere  with  Czar. 

The  artist  spent  the  greater  part  of  the  forenoon 
in  his  studio,  doing  nothing  of  importance.  That  is, 
to  a  casual  observer  he  would  have  seemed  to  be  doing 
nothing  of  importance.  He  did,  however,  place  his 
picture  of  the  spring  glade  beside  the  portrait  of  Mrs. 
Taine,  and  then,  for  an  hour  or  more,  sat  considering 
the  two  paintings.  Then  he  turned  the  "Quaker 
Maid"  again  to  the  wall  and  fixed  a  fresh  canvas  in 
place  on  the  easel.  That  was  all. 

Immediately  after  their  midday  lunch,  he  returned 
to  the  studio — hurriedly,  as  if  to  work.  He  arranged 
his  palette,  paints,  and  brushes  ready  to  his  hand, 
indeed — but  he,  then,  did  nothing  with  them.  List- 
lessly, without  interest,  he  turned  through  his  port- 

290 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

folios  of  sketches.  Often,  he  looked  away  through  the 
big,  north  window  to  the  distant  mountain  tops. 
Often,  he  seemed  to  be  listening.  He  was  sitting 
before  the  easel,  staring  at  the  blank  canvas,  when, 
clear  and  sweet,  from  the  depths  of  the  orange  grove, 
came  the  pure  tones  of  Sibyl  Andres'  violin. 

So  soft  and  low  was  the  music,  at  first,  that  the 
artist  almost  doubted  that  it  was  real,  thinking — as 
he  had  thought  that  day  when  Sibyl  came  singing  to 
the  glade — that  it  was  his  fancy  tricking  him.  When 
he  and  Conrad  Lagrange  left  the  mountains  three 
days  before,  the  girl  and  her  companion  had  not 
expected  to  return  to  Fairlands  for  at  least  two  weeks. 
But  there  was  no  mistaking  that  music  of  the  hills. 
As  the  tones  grew  louder  and  more  insistent,  with  a 
ringing  note  of  gladness?  he  knew  that  the  mountain 
girl  was  announcing  her  arrival  and,  in  the  language 
she  loved  best,  was  greeting  her  friends. 

But  so  strangely  selfish  is  the  heart  of  man,  that 
Aaron  King  gave  the  novelist  no  share  in  their  neigh- 
bor's musical  greeting.  He  received  the  message  as 
if  it  were  to  himself  alone.  As  he  listened,  his  eyes 
brightened;  he  stood  erect,  his  face  turned  upward 
toward  the  mountain  peaks  in  the  distance;  his  lips 
curved  in  a  slow  smile.  He  fancied  that  he  could 
see  the  girl's  winsome  face  lighted  with  merriment 
as  she  played,  knowing  his  surprise.  Once,  he  started 
impulsively  toward  the  door,  but  paused,  hesitating, 
and  turned  back.  When  the  music  ceased,  he  went 
to  the  open  window  that  looked  out  into  the  rose 
garden,  and  watched  expectantly. 

Presently,   he  heard  her  low-voiced  song  as  she 

291 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOKLD 

came  through  the  orange  grove  beyond  the  Ragged 
Robin  hedge.  Then  he  glimpsed  her  white  dress  at 
the  little  gate  in  the  corner.  Then  she  stood  in  full 
view. 

The  artist  had,  so  far,  seen  Sibyl  only  in  her  moun- 
tain costume  of  soft  brown, — made  for  rough  contact 
with  rocks  and  underbrush, — with  felt  hat  to  match, 
and  high,  laced  boots,  fit  for  climbing.  She  was 
dressed,  now,  as  Conrad  Lagrange  had  seen  her  that 
first  time  in  the  garden,  when  he  was  hiding  from 
Louise  Taine.  The  man  at  the  window  drew  a  little 
back,  with  a  low  exclamation  of  pleased  surprise  and 
wonder.  Was  that  lovely  creature  there  among  the 
roses  his  girl  comrade  of  the  hills  ?  The  Sibyl  Andres 
he  had  known — in  the  short  skirt  and  high  boots  of 
her  mountain  garb — was  a  winsome,  fanciful,  some- 
times serious,  sometimes  wayward,  maiden.  This 
Sibyl  Andres,  gowned  in  clinging  white,  was  a 
slender,  gracefully  tall,  and  beautifully  developed 
woman. 

Slowly,  she  came  toward  the  studio  end  of  the 
garden;  pausing  here  and  there  to  bend  over  the 
flowers  as  though  in  loving,  tender  greeting ;  singing, 
the  while,  her  low- voiced  melody;  unafraid  of  the 
sunshine  that  enveloped  her  in  a  golden  flood,  undis- 
turbed by  the  careless  fingers  of  the  wir.d  that 
caressed  her  hair.  A  girl  of  the  clean  out-of-doors, 
she  belonged  among  the  roses,  even  as  she  had  been 
at  home  among  the  pines  and  oaks  of  the  mountains. 
The  artist,  fascinated  by  the  lovely  scene,  stood  as 
though  fearing  to  move,  lest  the  vision  vanish. 


292 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

Then,  looking  up,  she  saw  him,  and  stretched  out 
her  hands  in  a  gesture  of  greeting,  with  a  laugh  of 
pleasure. 

"Don't  move,  don't  move!"  he  called  impulsively. 
"Hold  the  pose — please  hold  it!  I  want  you  just  as 
you  are !" 

The  girl,  amused  at  his  tragic  earnestness,  and  at 
the  manner  of  his  welcome,  understood  that  the  zeal 
of  the  artist  had  brushed  aside  the  polite  formalities 
of  the  man;  and,  as  unaffectedly  natural  as  she  did 
everything,  gave  herself  to  his  mood. 

Dragging  his  easel  with  the  blank  canvas  upon  it 
across  the  studio,  he  cried  out,  again,  "Don't  move, 
please  don't  move !"  and  began  working.  He  was  as 
one  beside  himself,  so  wholly  absorbed  was  he  in 
translating  into  the  terms  of  color  and  line,  the  loveli- 
ness, purity  and  truth  that  was  expressed  by  the  per- 
sonality of  the  girl  as  she  stood  among  the  flowers. 
"If  I  can  get  it !  If  I  can  only  get  it !"  he  exclaimed 
again  and  again,  with  a  kind  of  savage  earnestness, 
as  he  worked. 

All  his  years  of  careful  training,  all  his  studiously 
acquired  skill,  all  his  mastery  of  the  mechanics  of  his 
craft,  came  to  him,  now,  without  conscious  effort — 
obedient  to  his  purpose.  Here  was  no  thoughtful 
straining  to  remember  the  laws  of  composition,  and 
perspective,  and  harmony.  Here  was  no  skillful 
evading  of  the  truth  he  saw.  So  freely,  so  surely,  he 
worked,  he  scarcely  knew  he  painted.  Forgetting 
self,  as  he  was  unconscious  of  his  technic,  he  worked 
as  the  birds  sing,  as  the  bees  toil,  as  the  deer  runs. 


293 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOELD 

Under  his  hand,  his  picture  grew  and  blossomed  as 
the  roses,  themselves,  among  which  the  beautiful  girl 
stood. 

Day  after  day,  at  that  same  hour,  Sibyl  Andres 
came  singing  through  the  orange  grove,  to  stand  in 
the  golden  sunlight  among  the  roses,  with  hands  out- 
stretched in  greeting.  Every  day,  Aaron  King  waited 
her  coming — sitting  before  his  easel,  palette  and 
brush  in  hand.  Each  day,  he  worked  as  he  had 
worked  that  first  day — with  no  thought  for  anything 
save  for  his  picture. 

In  the  mornings,  he  walked  with  Conrad  Lagrange 
or,  sometimes,  worked  with  Sibyl  in  the  garden. 
Often,  in  the  evening,  the  two  men  would  visit  the 
little  house  next  door.  Occasionally,  the  girl  and  the 
woman  with  the  disfigured  face  would  come  to  sit  for 
a  while  on  the  front  porch  with  their  friends.  Thus 
the  neighborly  friendship  that  began  in  the  hills  was 
continued  in  the  orange  groves.  The  comradeship 
between  the  two  young  people  grew  stronger,  hour 
by  hour,  as  the  painter  worked  at  his  easel  to  express 
with  canvas  and  color  and  brush  the  spirit  of  the  girl 
whose  character  and  life  was  so  unmarred  by  the 
world. 

All  through  those  days,  when  he  was  so  absorbed 
in  his  work  that  he  often  failed  to  reply  when  she 
spoke  to  him,  the  girl  manifested  a  helpful  under- 
standing of  his  mood  that  caused  the  painter  to 
marvel.  She  seemed  to  know,  instinctively,  when  he 
was  baffled  or  perplexed  by  the  annoying  devils  of 
"can't-get-at-it,"  that  so  delight  to  torment  artist  folk ; 


294 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

just  as  she  knew  and  rejoiced  when  the  imps  were 
routed  and  the  soul  of  the  man  exulted  with  the  sure- 
ness  and  freedom  of  his  hand.  He  asked  her,  once, 
when  they  had  finished  for  the  day,  how  it  was  that 
she  knew  so  well  how  the  work  was  progressing,  when 
she  could  not  see  the  picture. 

She  laughed  merrily.  "But  I  can  see  you;  and 
I" — she  hesitated  with  that  trick,  that  he  was  learn- 
ing to  know  so  well,  of  searching  for  a  word — "I 
just  feel  what  you  are  feeling.  I  suppose  it's  because 
my  music  is  that  way.  Sometimes,  it  simply  won't 
come  right,  at  all,  and  I  feel  as  though  I  never  could 
do  it.  Then,  again,  it  seems  to  do  itself ;  and  I  listen 
and  wonder — just  as  if  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

So  that  day  came  when  the  artist,  drawing  slowly 
back  from  his  easel,  stood  so  long  gazing  at  his  pic- 
ture without  touching  it  that  the  girl  called  to  him, 
"What's  the  matter  ?  Won't  it  come  right  ?" 

Slowly  he  laid  aside  his  palette  and  brushes. 
Standing  at  the  open  window,  he  looked  at  her — 
smiling,  but  silent — as  she  held  the  pose. 

For  an  instant,  she  did  not  understand.  "Am  I 
not  right?"  she  asked  anxiously.  Then,  before  he 
could  answer — "Oh,  have  you  finished?  Is  it  all 
done?" 

Still  smiling,  he  answered  almost  sadly,  "I  have 
done  all  that  I  can  do.  Come." 

A  moment  later,  she  stood  in  the  studio  door. 

Seeing  her  hesitate,  he  said  again,  "Come." 

"I — I  am  afraid  to  look,"  she  faltered. 

He  laughed.  "Really  I  don't  think  it's  quite  so 
bad  as  that." 

295 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOKLD 

"Oh,  but  I  don't  mean  that  I'm  afraid  it's  bad- 
it  isn't." 

The  painter  watched  her, — a  queer  expression  on 
his  face, — as  he  returned  curiously,  "And  how,  pray 
tell,  do  you  know  it  isn't  bad — when  you  have  never 
seen  it  ?  It's  quite  the  thing,  I'll  admit,  for  critics  to 
praise  or  condemn  without  much  knowledge  of  the 
work;  but  I  didn't  expect  you  to  be  so  modern." 

"You  are  making  fun  of  me,"  she  laughed.  "But 
I  don't  care.  I  know  your  work  is  good,  because  I 
know  how  and  why  you  did  it.  You  painted  it  just 
as  you  painted  the  spring  glade,  didn't  you  2" 

"Yes,"  he  said  soberly,  "I  did.  But  why  are  you 
afraid?" 

"Why,  that's  the  reason.  I — I'm  afraid  to  see 
myself  as  you  see  me." 

The  man's  voice  was  gentle  with  feeling  as  he 
answered  seriously,  "Miss  Andres,  you,  of  all  the 
people  I  have  ever  known,  have  the  least  cause  to 
fear  to  look  at  your  portrait  for  that  reason.  Come." 

Slowly,  she  went  forward  to  stand  by  his  side 
before  the  picture. 

For  some  time,  she  looked  at  the  beautiful  work 
into  which  Aaron  King  had  put  the  best  of  himself 
and  of  his  genius.  At  last,  turning  full  upon  him, 
her  eyes  blue  and  shining,  she  said  in  a  low  tone,  "O 
Mr.  King,  it  is  too — too — beautiful !  It  is  so  beauti- 
ful it — it — hurts.  She  seems  to,  to" — she  searched 
for  the  word — "to  belong  to  the  roses,  doesn't  she? 
It  makes  you  feel  just  as  the  rose  garden  makes  you 
feel." 

He  laughed  with  pleasure.     "What   a   child   of 

296 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

nature  you  are!  You  have  forgotten  that  it  is  a 
portrait  of  yourself,  haven't  you  ?" 

She  laughed  with  him.  "I  had  forgotten.  It's  so 
lovely!"  Then  she  added  wistfully,  "Am  I — am  I 
really  like  that  ? — just  a  little  ?" 

"No,"  he  answered.  "But  that  is  just  a  little,  a 
very  little,  like  you." 

She  looked  at  him  half  doubtfully — sincerely 
unmindful  of  the  compliment,  in  her  consideration  of 
its  truth.  Shaking  her  head,  with  a  serious  smile, 
she  returned  slowly,  "I  wish  that  I  could  be  sure  you 
are  not  mistaken." 

"You  will  permit  me  to  exhibit  the  picture,  will 
you  ?"  he  asked. 

"Why,  yes !  of  course !  You  made  it  for  people  to 
see,  didn't  you  ?  I  don't  believe  any  one  could  look  at 
it  seriously  without  having  good  thoughts,  could 
they?" 

"I'm  sure  they  could  not,"  he  answered.  "But, 
you  see,  it's  a  portrait  of  you;  and  I  thought  you 
might  not  care  for  the — ah — "  he  finished  with  a 
smile — "shall  I  say  fame  ?" 

"Oh !  I  did  not  think  that  you  would  tell  any  one 
that  /  had  anything  to  do  with  it.  Is  it  necessary 
that  my  name  should  be  mentioned  ?" 

"Not  exactly  necessary" — he  admitted — "but  few 
women,  these  days,  would  miss  the  opportunity." 

She  shook  her  head,  with  a  positive  air.  "No,  no; 
you  must  exhibit  it  as  a  picture ;  not  as  a  portrait  of 
me.  The  portrait  part  is  of  no  importance.  It  is 
what  you  have  made  your  picture  say,  that  will  do 
good." 

297 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

"And  what  have  I  made  it  say?"  he  asked,  curi- 
ously pleased. 

"Why  it  says  that — that  a  woman  should  be  beauti- 
ful as  the  roses  are  beautiful — without  thinking  too 
much  about  it,  you  know — just  as  a  man  should  be 
strong  without  thinking  too  much  about  his  strength, 
I  mean." 

"Yes,"  he  agreed,  "it  says  that.  But  I  want  you 
to  know  that,  whatever  title  it  is  exhibited  under,  it 
will  always  be,  to  me,  a  portrait — the  truest  I  have 
ever  painted." 

She  flushed  with  genuine  pleasure  as  she  said 
brightly,  "I  like  you  for  that.  And  now  let's  try  it 
on  Conrad  Lagrange  and  Myra  Willard.  You  get 
him,  and  I'll  run  and  bring  her.  Mind  you  don't  let 
Mr.  Lagrange  in  until  I  get  back !  I  want  to  watch 
him  when  he  first  sees  it." 

When  the  artist  found  Conrad  Lagrange  and  told 
him  that  the  picture  was  finished,  the  novelist,  with- 
out comment,  turned  his  attention  to  Czar. 

The  painter,  with  an  amused  smile,  asked,  "Won't 
you  come  for  a  look  at  it,  old  man  ?" 

The  other  returned  gruffly,  "Thanks;  but  I  don't 
think  I  care  to  risk  it." 

The  artist  laughed.  "But  Miss  Andres  wants  you 
to  come.  She  sent  me  to  fetch  you." 

Conrad  Lagrange  turned  his  peculiar,  baffling  eyes 
upon  the  young  man.  "Does  she  like  it  ?" 

"She  seems  to." 

"If  she  seems  to,  she  does,"  retorted  the  other,  ris- 
ing. "And  that's  different." 

When  the  novelist,  with  his  three  friends,  stood 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOELD 

before  the  easel,  he  was  silent  for  so  long  that  the 
girl  said  anxiously,  "I — I  thought  you  would  like  it, 
Mr.  Lagrange." 

They  saw  the  strange  man's  eyes  fill  with  tears  as 
he  answered,  in  the  gentle  tones  that  always  marked 
his  words  to  her,  "Like  it?  My  dear  child,  how 
could  I  help  liking  it?  It  is  you — you!"  To  the 
artist,  he  added,  "It  is  great  work,  my  boy,  great! 
I — I  wish  your  mother  could  have  seen  it.  It  is 
like  her — as  I  knew  her.  You  have  done  well."  He 
turned,  with  gentle  courtesy,  to  Myra  Willard ;  "And 
you  ?  What  is  your  verdict,  Miss  Willard  ?" 

With  her  arm  around  the  beautiful  original  of  the 
portrait,  the  woman  with  the  disfigured  face  an- 
swered, "I  think,  sir,  that  I,  better  than  any  one  in 
all  the  world,  know  how  good,  how  true,  it  is." 

Conrad  Lagrange  spoke  again  to  the  artist,  inquir- 
ingly ;  "You  will  exhibit  it  ?" 

"Miss  Andres  says  that  I  may — but  not  as  a 
portrait." 

The  novelist  could  not  conceal  his  pleasure  at  the 
answer.  Presently,  he  said,  "If  it  is  not  to  be  shown 
as  a  portrait,  may  I  suggest  a  title  ?" 

"I  was  hoping  you  would !"  exclaimed  the  painter. 

"And  so  was  I,"  cried  Sibyl,  with  delight.  "What 
is  it,  Mr.  Lagrange  ?" 

"Let  it  be  exhibited  as  'The  Spirit  of  Nature— 
A  Portrait',"  answered  Conrad  Lagrange. 

As  the  novelist  finished  speaking,  Yee  Kee  ap- 
peared in  the  doorway.  "They  come — big  automobile. 
Whole  lot  people.  Misse  Taine,  Miste'  Lutlidge,  sick 
man,  whole  lot — I  come  tell  you." 

299 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOULD 

The  artist  spoke  quickly, — "Stop  them  in  the 
house,  Kee;  I'll  be  right  in," — and  the  Chinaman 
vanished. 

At  Yee  Kee's  announcement,  Myra  Willard's  face 
went  white,  and  she  gave  a  low  cry. 

"Never  mind,  dear,"  said  the  girl,  soothingly.  "We 
can  slip  away  through  the  garden — come." 

When  Sibyl  and  the  woman  with  the  disfigured 
face  were  gone,  Conrad  Lagrange  and  Aaron  King 
looked  at  each  other,  questioningly. 

Then  the  novelist  said  harshly, — pointing  to  the 
picture  on  the  easel, — "You're  not  going  to  let  that 
flock  of  buzzards  feed  on  this,  are  you  ?  I'll  murder 
some  one,  sure  as  hell,  if  you  do." 

"I  don't  think  I  could  stand  it,  myself,"  said  the 
artist,  laughing  grimly,  as  he  drew  the  velvet  curtain 
to  hide  the  portrait. 


300 


CHAPTEK  XXVII 


THE  ANSWER 


Aaron  King  and  Conrad  Lagrange 
entered  the  house  to  meet  their  callers 
from  Fairlands  Heights,  the  artist  felt, 
oddly,  that  he  was  meeting  a  company  of 
strangers. 

The  carefully  hidden,  yet — to  him — 
subtly  revealed,  warmth  of  Mrs.  Taine's  greeting 
embarrassed  him  with  a  momentary  sense  of  shame. 
The  frothing  gush  of  Louise's  inane  ejaculations,  and 
the  coughing,  choking,  cursing  of  Mr.  Taine, — 
whose  feeble  grip  upon  the  flesh  that  had  so  betrayed 
him  was,  by  now,  so  far  loosed  that  he  could  scarcely 
walk  alone, — set  the  painter  struggling  for  words  that 
would  mean  nothing — the  only  words  that,  under  the 
circumstances,  could  serve.  fAaron  King  was  some- 
what out  of  practise  in  the  use  of  meaningless 
words,  and  the  art  of  talking  without  saying  anything 
is  an  art  that  requires  constant  exercise  if  one  would 
not  commit  serious  technical  blunders. ;  James  Rut- 
lidge's  greeting  was  insolently  familiar ;  as  a  man  of 
certain  mind  greets — in  public — a  boon  companion 
of  his  private  and  unmentionable  adventures.  Toward 
the  great  critic,  the  painter  exercised  a  cool  self- 
restraint  that  was  at  least  commendable. 

While  Aaron  King,  with  James  Rutlidge  and  Mr. 

301 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOKLD 

Taine,  with  carefully  assumed  interest,  was  listening 
to  Louise's  effort  to  make  a  jumble  of  "ohs"  and 
"ahs"  and  artistic  sighs  sound  like  a  description  of  a 
sunset  in  the  mountains,  Mrs.  Taine  said  quietly  to 
Conrad  Lagrange,  "You  certainly  have  taken  excel- 
lent care  of  your  protege,  this  summer.  He  looks 
splendidly  fit." 

The  novelist,  watching  the  woman  whose  eyes,  as 
she  spoke,  were  upon  the  artist,  answered,  "You  are 
pleased  to  flatter  me,  Mrs.  Taine." 

She  turned  to  him,  with  a  knowing  smile.  "Per- 
haps I  am  giving  you  more  credit  than  is  due.  I 
understand  Mr.  King  has  not  been  in  your  care 
altogether.  Shame  on  you,  Mr.  Lagrange !  for  a  man 
of  your  age  and  experience  to  permit  your  charge  to 
roam  all  over  the  country,  alone  and  unprotected, 
with  a  picturesque  mountain  girl! — and  that,  after 
your  warning  to  poor  me !" 

Conrad  Lagrange  smiled  grimly.  "I  confess  I 
thought  of  you  in  that  connection  several  times." 

She  eyed  him  doubtfully.  "Oh,  well,"  she  said 
easily,  "I  suppose  artists  must  amuse  themselves, 
occasionally — the  same  as  the  rest  of  us." 

"I  don't  think  that,  'amuse'  is  exactly  the  word, 
Mrs.  Taine,"  the  other  returned  coldly. 

"No  ?  Surely  you  don't  meant  to  tell  me  that  it  is 
anything  serious  ?" 

"I  don't  mean  to  tell  you  anything  about  it,"  he 
retorted  rather  sharply. 

She  laughed.  "You  don't  need  to.  Jim  has  already 
told  me  quite  enough.  Mr.  King,  himself,  will  tell 
me  more." 

302 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

"Not  unless  he's  a  bigger  fool  than  I  think," 
growled  the  novelist. 

Again,  she  laughed  into  his  face,  mockingly.  "You 
men  are  all  more  or  less  foolish  when  there's  a  woman 
in  the  case,  aren't  you  ?" 

To  which,  the  other  answered  tartly,  "If  we  were 
not,  there  would  be  no  woman  in  the  case." 

As  Conrad  Lagrange  spoke,  Louise,  exhausted  by 
her  efforts  to  achieve  that  sunset  in  the  mountains 
with  her  limited  supply  of  adjectives,  floundered 
hopelessly  into  the  expressive  silence  of  clasped  hands 
and  heaving  breast  and  ecstatically  upturned  eyes. 
The  artist,  seizing  the  opportunity  with  the  cunning 
of  desperation,  turned  to  Mrs.  Taine,  with  some  inane 
remark  about  the  summers  in  California. 

Whatever  it  was  that  he  said,  Mrs.  Taine  agreed 
with  him,  neartily,  adding,  "And  you,  I  suppose, 
have  been  making  good  use  of  your  time  ?  Or  have 
you  been  simply  storing  up  material  and  energy  for 
this  winter  ?" 

This  brought  Louise  out  of  the  depths  of  that 
sunset,  with  a  flop.  She  was  so  sure  that  Mr.  King 
had  some  inexpressibly  wonderful  work  to  show  them. 
Couldn't  they  go  at  once  to  the  equally  inexpressibly 
beautiful  studio,  to  see  the  inexpressibly  lovely  pic- 
tures that  she  was  so  inexpressibly  sure  he  had  been 
painting  in  the  inexpressibly  grand  and  beautiful  and 
wonderfully  lovely  mountains  ? 

The  painter  assured  them  that  he  had  no  work  for 
them  to  see;  and  Louise  floundered  again  into  the 
depths  of  inexpressible  disappointment  and  despair. 

Nevertheless,  a  few  minutes  later,  Aaron  King 

303 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

found  himself  in  his  studio,  alone  with  Mrs.  Taine. 
He  could  not  have  told  exactly  how  she  managed  it, 
or  why.  Perhaps,  in  sheer  pity,  she  had  rescued  him 
from  the  floods  of  Louise's  appreciation.  Perhaps — 
she  had  some  other  reasons.  There  had  been  some- 
thing said  about  her  right  to  see  her  own  picture,  and 
then — there  they  were — with  the  others  safely  barred 
from  intruding  upon  the  premises  sacred  to  art. 

When  there  was  no  longer  need  to  fear  the  eyes  of 
the  world,  Mrs.  Taine  was  at  no  pains  to  hide  the 
warmth  of  her  feeling.  With  little  reserve,  she  con- 
fessed herself  in  every  look  and  tone  and  movement. 

"Are  you  really  glad  to  see  me,  I  wonder,"  she 
said  invitingly.  "All  this  summer,  while  I  have  been 
forced  to  endure  the  company  of  all  sorts  of  stupid 
people,  I  have  been  thinking  of  you  and  your  work. 
And,  you  see,  I  have  come  to  you,  the  first  possible 
moment  after  my  return  home." 

The  man — being  a  man — could  not  remain  wholly 
insensible  to  the  alluring  physical  beauty  of  the 
splendid  creature  who  stood  so  temptingly  before 
him ;  but,  to  the  honor  of  his  kind,  he  could  and  did 
remain  master  of  himself. 

The  woman,  true  to  her  life  training, — as  James 
Rutlidge  had  been  true  to  his  schooling  when  he 
approached  Sibyl  Andres  in  the  mountains, — con- 
strued the  artist's  manner,  not  as  a  splendid  self- 
control,  but  as  a  careful  policy.  To  her,  and  to  her 
kind,  the  great  issues  of  life  are  governed,  not  at  all 
by  principle,  but  by  policy.  It  is  not  at  all  what 
one  is,  or  what  one  may  accomplish  that  matters ;  it 
is  wholly  what  one  may  skillfully  appear  to  be,  and 

304 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

what  one  may  skillfully  provoke  the  world  to  say, 
that  is  of  vital  importance.  Turning  from  the  painter 
to  the  easel,  as  if  to  find  in  his  portrait  of  her  the 
fuller  expression  of  that  which  she  believed  he  dared 
not  yet  put  into  words,  she  was  about  to  draw  aside 
the  curtain ;  when  Aaron  King  checked  her  quickly, 
with  a  smile  that  robbed  his  words  of  any  rudeness. 

"Please  don't  touch  that,  Mrs.  Taine.  I  am  not 
yet  ready  to  show  it." 

As  she  turned  from  the  easel  to  face  him,  he  took 
her  portrait  from  where  it  rested,  face  to  the  wall; 
and  placed  it  upon  another  easel,  saying,  "Here  is 
your  picture." 

With  the  painting  before  her,  she  talked  eagerly 
of  her  plans  for  the  artist's  future ;  how  the  picture 
was  to  be  exhibited,  and  how,  because  it  was  her 
portrait,  it  would  be  praised  and  talked  about  by  her 
friends  who  were  leaders  in  the  art  circles.  Frankly, 
she  spoke  of  "pull"  and  "influence"  and  "scheme" ; 
of  "working"  this  and  that  "paper"  for  "write-ups" ; 
of  "handling"  this  or  that  "critic"  and  "writer" ;  of 
"reaching  the  committees" ;  of  introducing  the 
painter  into  the  proper  inside  cliques,  and  clans; 
and  of  clever  "advertising  stunts"  that  would  make 
him  the  most  popular  portrait  painter  of  his  day; 
insuring  thus  his — as  she  called  it — fame. 

The  man  who  had  painted  the  picture  of  the  spring 
glade,  and  who  had  so  faithfully  portrayed  the  truth 
and  beauty  of  Sibyl  Andres  as  she  stood  among  the 
roses,  listened  to  this  woman's  plans  for  making  his 
portrait  of  herself  famous,  with  a  feeling  of  embar- 
rassment and  shame. 

305 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOELD 

"Do  you  really  think  that  the  work  merits  such 
prominence  as  you  say  will  be  given  it?"  he  asked 
doubtfully. 

She  laughed  knowingly,  "Just  wait  until  Jim  Kut- 
lidge's  'write-up'  appears,  and  all  the  others  follow 
his  lead,  and  you'll  see !  The  picture  is  clever  enough 
— you  know  it  as  well  as  I.  It  is  beautiful.  It  has 
everything  that  we  women  want  in  a  portrait.  I 
really  don't  know  much  about  what  you  painters  call 
art;  but  I  know  that  when  Jim  and  our  friends  get 
through  with  it,  your  picture  will  have  every  mark 
of  a  great  masterpiece,  and  that  you  will  be  on  the 
topmost  wave  of  success." 

"And  then  what  ?"  he  asked. 

Again,  she  interpreted  his  words  in  the  light  of 
her  own  thoughts,  and  with  little  attempt  to  veil  the 
fire  that  burned  in  her  eyes,  answered,  "And  then — 
I  hope  that  you  will  not  forget  me." 

For  a  moment  he  returned  her  look ;  then  a  feeling 
of  disgust  and  shame  for  her  swept  over  him,  and 
he  again  turned  away,  to  stand  gazing  moodily  out 
of  the  window  that  looked  into  the  rose  garden. 

"You  seem  to  be  disturbed  and  worried,"  she  said, 
in  a  tone  that  implied  a  complete  understanding  of 
his  mood,  and  a  tacit  acceptance  of  the  things  that 
he  would  say  if  it  were  not  for  the  world. 

He  laughed  shortly — "I  fear  you  will  think  me 
ungrateful  for  your  kindness.  Believe  me,  I  am  not." 

"I  know  you  are  not,"  she  returned.  "But  don't 
you  think  that  you  had  better  confess,  just  the  same  ?" 

He  answered  wonderingly,  "Confess  ?" 


306 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

"Yes."  She  shook  her  finger  at  him,  in  playful 
severity.  "Oh,  I  know  what  you  have  been  up  to  all 
summer — running  wild  with  your  mountain  girl ! 
Really,  you  ought  to  be  more  discreet." 

Aaron  King's  face  burned  as  he  stammered  some- 
thing about  not  knowing  what  she  meant. 

She  laughed  gaily.  "There,  there,  never  mind — 
I  forgive  you — now  that  you  are  safely  back  in  civili- 
zation again.  I  know  you  artists,  and  how  you  must 
have  your  periods  of  ah — relaxation — with  rather 
more  liberties  than  the  common  herd.  Just  so  you 
are  careful  that  the  world  doesn't  know  too  much." 

At  this  frank  revelation  of  her  mind,  the  man 
stood  amazed.  For  the  construction  she  put  upon  his 
relation  with  the  girl  whose  pure  and  gentle  com- 
radeship had  led  him  to  greater  heights  in  his  art 
than  he  had  ever  before  attained,  he  could  have 
driven  this  woman  from  the  studio  he  felt  that  she 
profaned.  But  what  could  he  say  ?  He  remembered 
Conrad  Lagrange's  counsel  when  James  Rutlidge  had 
seen  the  girl  at  their  camp.  What  could  he  say  that 
would  not  injure  Sibyl  Andres  ?  To  cover  his  embar- 
rassment, he  forced  a  laugh  and  answered  lightly, 
"Really,  I  am  not  good  at  confessions." 

"Nor  I  at  playing  the  part  of  confessor,"  she 
laughed  with  him.  "But,  just  the  same,  you  might 
tell  me  what  you  think  of  yourself.  Aren't  you  just 
a  little  ashamed  ?" 

The  artist  had  moved  to  a  position  in  front  of  her 
portrait;  and,  as  he  looked  upon  the  painted  lie,  his 
answer  came.  "Rather  let  me  tell  you  what  I  think 


307 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

of  you,  Mrs.  Taine.  And  let  me  tell  you  in  the  lan- 
guage I  know  best.  Let  me  put  my  answer  to  your 
charges  here,"  he  touched  her  portrait. 

Almost,  his  reply  was  worthy  of  Conrad  Lagrange> 
himself. 

"I  don't  quite  understand,"  she  said,  a  trifle  put 
out  by  the  turn  his  answer  had  taken. 

"I  mean,"  he  explained  eagerly,  "that  I  want  to 
repaint  your  portrait.  You  remember,  I  wrote,  when 
I  returned  Mr.  Taine's  generous  check,  that  I  was 
not  altogether  satisfied  with  it.  Give  me  another 
chance." 

"You  mean  for  me  to  come  here  again,  to  pose  for 
you  ?— as  I  did  before  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "just  as  you  did  before.  I 
want  to  make  a  portrait  worthy  of  you,  as  this  is  no«>. 
Let  me  tell  you,  on  the  canvas,  what  I  cannot — "  he 
hesitated  then  said  deliberately — "what  I  dare  not 
put  into  words." 

The  woman  received  his  words  as  a  veiled  declara- 
tion of  a  passion  he  dared  not,  yet,  openly  express. 
She  thought  his  request  a  clever  ruse  to  renew  their 
meetings  in  the  privacy  of  his  studio,  and  was,  accord- 
ingly, delighted. 

"Oh,  that  will  be  wonderful! — heavenly!"  she 
cried,  springing  to  her  feet.  "Can  we  begin  at  once  ? 
May  I  come  to-morrow  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "come  to-morrow." 

"And  may  I  wear  the  Quaker  gown  ?" 

"Yes,  indeed !  I  want  you  just  as  you  were  before 
— the  same  dress,  the  same  pose.  It  is  to  be  the  same 
picture,  you  understand,  only  a  better  one — one  more 

308 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

worthy  of  us,  both.  And  now,"  he  continued  hur- 
riedly, "don't  you  think  that  we  should  return  to  the 
house?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  she  answered  regretfully — linger- 
ing. 

The  artist  was  already  opening  the  door. 

As  they  passed  out,  she  placed  her  hand  on  his 
arm,  and  looked  up  into  his  face  admiringly.  "What 
a  clever,  clever  man  you  are,  to  think  of  it!  And 
what  a  story  it  will  make  for  the  papers — when  my 
picture  is  shown — how  you  were  not  satisfied  with 
the  portrait  and  refused  to  let  it  go — and  how,  after 
keeping  it  in  your  studio  for  months,  you  repainted 
it,  to  satisfy  your  artistic  conscience!" 

Aaron  King  smiled. 

The  announcement  in  the  house  that  the  artist  was 
to  repaint  Mrs.  Taine's  picture,  provoked  character- 
istic comment.  Louise  effervesced  a  frothy  stream 
of  bubbling  exclamations.  James  Rutlidge  gave  a 
hearty,  "By  Jove,  old  man,  you  have  nerve !  If  you 
can  really  improve  on  that  canvas,  you  are  a  wonder." 
And  Mr.  Taine,  under  the  watchful  eye  of  his  beauti- 
ful wife,  responded  with  a  husky  whisper,  "Quite 
right — my  boy — quite  right!  Certainly — by  all 
means- — if  you  feel  that  way  about  it — "  his  consent 
and  approval  ending  in  a  paroxysm  of  coughing  that 
left  him  weak  and  breathless,  and  nearly  eliminated 
him  from  the  question,  altogether. 

When  the  Fairlands  Heights  party  had  departed, 
Conrad  Lagrange  looked  the  artist  up  and  down. 

"Well," — he  growled  harshly,  in  his  most  brutal 
tones, — "what  is  it?  Is  the  dog  returning  to  his 

309 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

vomit? — or  is  the  prodigal  turning  his  back  on  hia 
hogs  and  his  husks  ?" 

Aaron  King  smiled  as  he  answered,  "I  think, 
rather,  it's  the  case  of  the  blind  beggar  who  sat  by 
the  roadside,  helpless,  until  a  certain  Great  Physician 
passed  that  way." 

And  Conrad  Lagrange  understood. 


310 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 


YOU'RE  RUINED,  MY  BOY 

T  was  no  light  task  to  which  Aaron  King 
had  set  his  hand.  He  did  not  doubt  what 
it  would  cost  him.  Nor  did  Conrad 
Lagrange,  as  they  talked  together  that 
evening,  fail  to  point  out  clearly  what  it 

would   mean  to   the   artist,    at  the  very 

beginning  of  his  career,  to  fly  thus  rudely  in  the  face 
of  the  providence  that  had  chosen  to  serve  him.  The 
world's  history  of  art  and  letters  affords  too  many 
examples  of  men  who,  because  they  refused  to  pay 
court  to  the  ruling  cliques  and  circles  of  their  little 
day,  had  seen  the  doors  of  recognition  slammed  in 
their  faces;  and  who,  even  as  they  wrought  their 
great  works,  had  been  forced  to  hear,  as  they  toiled, 
the  discordant  yelpings  of  the  self-appointed  watch- 
dogs of  the  halls  of  fame.  Nor  did  the  artist  ques- 
tion the  final  outcome, — if  only  his  work  should  be 
found  worthy  to  endure, — for  the  world's  history 
establishes,  also,  the  truth — that  he  who  labors  for  a 
higher  wage  than  an  approving  paragraph  in  the 
daily  paper,  may,  in  spite  of  the  condemnation  of  the 
pretending  rulers,  live  in  the  life  of  his  race,  long 
after  the  names  to  which  he  refused  to  bow  are  lost 
in  the  dust  of  their  self-raised  thrones. 

The  painter  was  driven  to  his  course  by  that  self- 

311 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

respect,  without  which,  no  man  can  sanely  endure  his 
own  company ;  together  with  that  reverence — I  say  it 
deliberately — that  reverence  for  his  art,  without 
which,  no  worthy  work  is  possible.  He  had  come  to 
understand  that  one  may  not  prostitute  his  genius  to 
the  immoral  purposes  of  a  diseased  age,  without  reap- 
ing a  prostitute's  reward.  The  hideous  ruin  that  Mr. 
Taine  had,  in  himself,  wrought  by  the  criminal  dissi- 
pation of  his  manhood's  strength,  and  by  the  debasing 
of  his  physical  appetites  and  passions,  was  to  Aaron 
King,  now,  a  token  of  the  intellectual,  spiritual,  and 
moral  ruin  that  alone  can  result  from  a  debased  and 
depraved  dissipation  of  an  artist's  creative  power. 
He  saw  clearly,  now,  that  the  influence  his  work  must 
wield  upon  the  lives  of  those  who  came  within  its 
reach,  must  be  identical  with  the  influence  of  Sibyl 
Andres,  who  had  so  unconsciously  opened  his  eyes  to 
the  true  mission  and  glory  of  the  arts,  and  thus  had 
made  his  decision  possible.  In  that  hour  when  Mrs. 
Taine  had  revealed  herself  to  him  so  clearly,  follow- 
ing as  it  did  so  closely  his  days  of  work  and  the  final 
completion  of  his  portrait  of  the  girl  among  the  roses, 
he  saw  and  felt  the  woman,  not  as  one  who  could  help 
him  to  the  poor  rewards  of  a  temporary  popularity, 
but  as  the  spirit  of  an  age  that  threatens  the  very  life 
of  art  by  seeking  to  destroy  the  vital  truth  and  pur- 
pose of  its  existence.  He  felt  that  in  painting  the 
portrait  of  Mrs.  Taine — as  he  had  painted  it — he  had 
betrayed  a  trust;  as  truly  as  had  his  father  who,  for 
purely  personal  aggrandizement,  had  stolen  the  ma- 
terial wealth  intrusted  to  him  by  his  fellows.  The 
young  man  understood,  now,  that,  instead  of  fulfilling 

312 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

the  purpose  of  his  mother's  sacrifice,  and  realizing  for 
her  her  dying  wish,  as  he  had  promised;  the  course 
he  had  entered  upon  would  have  thwarted  the  one  and 
denied  the  other. 

The  young  man  had  answered  the  novelist  truly, 
that  it  was  a  case  of  the  blind  beggar  by  the  wayside. 
He  might  have  carried  the  figure  farther;  for  that 
same  blind  beggar,  when  his  eyes  had  been  opened, 
was  persecuted  by  the  very  ones  who  had  fed  him  in 
his  infirmity.  It  is  easier,  sometimes,  to  receive 
blindly,  than  to  give  with  eyes  that  see  too  clearly. 

When  Mrs.  Taine  went  to  the  artist,  in  the  studio, 
the  next  day,  she  found  him  in  the  act  of  retying  the 
package  of  his  mother's  letters.  For  nearly  an  hour, 
he  had  been  reading  them.  For  nearly  an  hour  be- 
fore that,"  he  had  been  seated,  motionless,  before  the 
picture  that  Conrad  Lagrange  had  said  was  a  por- 
trait of  the  Spirit  of  Nature. 

When  Mrs.  Taine  had  slipped  off  her  wrap,  and 
stood  before  him  gowned  in  the  dress  that  so  revealed 
the  fleshly  charms  it  pretended  to  hide,  she  indicated 
the  letters  in  the  artist's  hands,  with  an  insinuating 
laugh ;  while  there  was  a  glint  of  more  than  passing 
curiosity  in  her  eyes.  "Dear  me,"  she  said,  "I  hope 
I  am  not  intruding  upon  the  claims  of  some  absent 
affinity." 

Aaron  King  gravely  held  out  his  hand  with  the 
package  of  letters,  saying  quietly,  "They  are  from 
my  mother." 

And  the  woman  had  sufficient  grace  to  blush,  for 
once,  with  unfeigned  shame. 

When  he  had  received  her  apologies,  and,  putting 

313 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

aside  the  letters,  had  succeeded  in  making  her  forget 
the  incident,  he  said,  ''And  now,  if  you  are  ready, 
shall  we  begin  ?" 

For  some  time  the  painter  stood  before  the  picture 
on  his  easel,  without  touching  palette  or  brush,  study- 
ing the  face  of  the  woman  who  posed  for  him.  By  a 
slight  movement  of  her  eyes,  without  turning  her 
head,  she  could  look  him  fairly  in  the  face.  Pres- 
ently, as  he  continued  to  gaze  at  her  so  intently,  she 
laughed ;  and,  with  a  little  shrug  of  her  shoulders  and 
a  pretense  as  of  being  cold,  said,  "When  you  look  at 
me  that  way,  I  feel  as  though  you  had  surprised  me 
at  my  bath." 

The  artist  turned  his  attention  instantly  to  his 
color-box.  While  setting  his  palette,  with  his  eyes 
upon  his  task,  he  said  deliberately,  "  'Venus  Sur- 
prised at  the  Bath.'  Do  you  know  that  you  would 
make  a  lovely  Venus  ?" 

With  a  low  laugh,  she  returned,  daringly.  "Would 
you  care  to  paint  me  as  the  Goddess  of  Love  ?" 

He,  still,  did  not  look  at  her ;  but  answered,  while, 
with  deliberate  care,  he  selected  a  few  brushes  from 
the  Chinese  jar  near  the  easel,  "Venus  is  always  a 
very  popular  subject,  you  know." 

She  did  not  speak  for  a  moment  or  two;  and  the 
painter  felt  her  watching  him.  As  he  turned  to  his 
canvas — still  careful  not  to  look  in  her  direction — 
she  said,  suggestively,  "I  suppose  you  could  change 
the  face  so  that  no  one  would  know  it  was  I  who 
posed." 

The  man  remembered  her  carefully  acquired  rep- 
utation for  modesty,  but  held  to  his  purpose,  saying, 

314 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOKLD 

as  if  considering  the  question  seriously,  "Oh,  as  for 
that  part;  it  could  be  managed  with  perfect  safety." 
Then,  suddenly,  he  turned  his  eyes  upon  her  face, 
with  a  gaze  so  sharp  and  piercing  that  the  blood 
slowly  colored  neck  and  cheek. 

But  the  painter  did  not  wait  for  the  blush.  He 
had  seen  what  he  wanted  and  was  at  work — with 
the  almost  savage  intensity  that  had  marked  his  man- 
ner while  he  had  worked  upon  the  portrait  of  Sibyl 
Andres. 

And  so,  day  after  day,  as  he  painted,  again,  the 
portrait  of  the  woman  who  Conrad  Lagrange  fanci- 
fully called  "The  Age,"  the  artist  permitted  her  to 
betray  her  real  self — the  self  that  was  so  commonly 
hidden  from  the  world,  under  the  mask  of  a  pretended 
culture,  and  the  cloak  of  a  fraudulent  refinement. 
He  led  her  to  talk  of  the  world  in  which  she  lived — 
of  the  scandals  and  intrigues  among  those  of  her 
class  who  hold  such  enviable  positions  in  life.  He 
drew  from  her  the  philosophies  and  beliefs  and  relig- 
ions of  her  kind.  He  encouraged  her  to  talk  of  art — 
to  give  her  understanding  of  the  world  of  artists  as 
she  knew  it,  and  to  express  her  real  opinions  and 
tastes  in  pictures  and  books.  He  persuaded  her  to 
throw  boldly  aside  the  glittering,  tinsel  garb  in  which 
she  walked  before  the  world,  and  so  to  stand  before 
him  in  all  the  hideous  vulgarity,  the  intellectual  pov- 
erty, and  the  moral  depravity  of  her  naked  self. 

At  times,  when,  under  his  intense  gaze,  she  drew 
the  cloak  of  her  pretenses  hurriedly  about  her,  he 
sat  before  his  picture  without  touching  the  canvas, 
waiting;  or,  perhaps,  he  paced  the  floor;  until,  with 

315 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

skillful  words,  her  fears  were  banished  and  she  was 
again  herself.  Then,  with  quick  eye  and  sure,  ready 
hand,  he  wrought  into  the  portrait  upon  the  easel — so 
far  as  the  power  was  given  him — all  that  he  saw  in 
the  face  of  the  woman  who — posing  for  him,  secure  in 
the  belief  that  he  was  painting  a  lie — revealed  her 
true  nature,  warped  and  distorted  as  it  was  by  an  age 
that,  demanding  realism  in  art,  knows  not  what  it 
demands.  Always,  when  the  sitting  was  finished,  he 
drew  the  curtain  to  hide  the  picture ;  forbidding  her 
to  look  at  it  until  he  said  that  it  was  finished. 

Much  of  the  time,  when  he  was  not  in  the  studio 
at  work,  the  painter  spent  with  Mrs.  Taine  and  her 
friends,  in  the  big  touring  car,  and  at  the  house  on 
Fairlands  Heights.  But  the  artist  did  not,  now,  enter 
into  the  life  of  Fairlands'  Pride  for  gain  or  for  pleas- 
ure— he  went  for  study — as  a  physician  goes  into  the 
dissecting  room.  He  justified  himself  by  the  old  and 
familiar  argument  that  it  was  for  his  art's  sake. 

Sibyl  Andres,  he  seldom  saw,  except  occasionally, 
in  the  early  morning,  in  the  rose  garden.  The  girl 
knew  what  he  was  doing — that  is,  she  knew  that  he 
was  painting  a  portrait  of  Mrs.  Taine — and  so,  with 
Myra  Willard,  avoided  the  place.  But  Conrad  La- 
grange,  now,  made  the  neighboring  house  in  the 
orange  grove  his  place  of  refuge  from  Louise  Taine, 
who  always  accompanied  Mrs.  Taine, — lest  the  world 
should  talk, — but  who  never  went  as  far  as  the  studio. 

But  often,  as  he  worked,  the  artist  heard  the  music 
of  the  mountain  girl's  violin;  and  he  knew  that  she, 
in  her  own  beautiful  way,  was  trying  to  help  him — 
as  she  would  have  said — to  put  the  mountains  into 

316 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

his  work.  Many  times,  he  was  conscious  of  the  feel- 
ing that  some  one  was  watching  him.  Once,  pausing 
at  the  garden  end  of  the  studio  as  he  paced  to  and  fro, 
he  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  as  she  slipped  through  the 
gate  in  the  Ragged  Robin  hedge.  And  once,  in  the 
morning,  after  one  of  those  afternoons  when  he  had 
gone  away  with  Mrs.  Taine  at  the  conclusion  of  the 
sitting,  he  found  a  note  pinned  to  the  velvet  curtain 
that  hid  the  canvas  on  his  working  easel.  It  was  a 
quaint  little  missive;  written  in  one  of  the  girl's 
fanciful  moods,  with  a  reference  to  "Blue  Beard," 
and  the  assurance  that  she  had  been  strong  and  had 
not  looked  at  the  forbidden  picture. 

As  the  work  progressed,  Mrs.  Taine  remarked, 
often,  how  the  artist  was  changed.  When  painting 
that  first  picture,  he  had  been  so  sure  of  himself. 
WTorking  with  careless  ease,  he  had  been  suave  and 
pleasant  in  his  manner,  with  ready  smile  or  laugh. 
Why,  she  questioned,  was  he,  now,  so  grave  and 
serious  ?  Why  did  he  pause  so  often,  to  sit  staring  at 
his  canvas,  or  to  pace  the  floor  ?  Why  did  he  seem 
to  be  so  uncertain — to  be  questioning,  searching,  hesi- 
tating? The  woman  thought  that  she  knew.  Re- 
joicing in  her  fancied  victory — all  but  won — she 
looked  forward  to  the  triumphant  moment  when  this 
splendid  man  should  be  swept  from  his  feet  by  the 
force  of  the  passion  she  thought  she  saw  him  strug- 
gling to  conceal.  Meanwhile  she  tempted  him  by  all 
the  wiles  she  knew — inviting  him  with  eyes  and  lips 
and  graceful  pose  and  meaning  gesture. 

And  Aaron  King,  with  clear,  untroubled  eye  seeing 
all;  with  cool  brain  understanding  all;  with  steady, 

317 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

skillful  hand,  ruled  supremely  by  his  purpose, 
painted  that  which  he  saw  and  understood  into  his 
portrait  of  her. 

So  they  came  to  the  last  sitting.  On  the  following 
evening,  Mrs.  Taine  was  giving  a  dinner  at  the  house 
on  Fairlands  Heights,  at  which  the  artist  was  to  meet 
some  people  who  would  be — as  she  said — useful  to 
him.  Eastern  people  they  were ;  from  the  accredited 
center  of  art  and  literature;  members  of  the  inner 
circle  of  the  elect.  They  happened  to  be  spending 
the  season  on  the  Coast,  and  she  had  taken  advantage 
of  the  opportunity  to  advance  the  painter's  interests. 
It  was  very  fortunate  that  her  portrait  was  to  be 
finished  in  time  for  them  to  see  it. 

The  artist  was  sorry,  he  said,  but,  while  it  would 
not  be  necessary  for  her  to  come  to  the  studio  again, 
the  picture  was  not  yet  finished,  and  he  could  not 
permit  its  being  exhibited  until  he  was  ready  to  sign 
the  canvas. 

"But  I  may  see  it  ?"  she  asked,  as  he  laid  aside  his 
palette  and  brushes,  and  announced  that  he  was 
through. 

With  a  quick  hand,  he  drew  the  curtain.  "Xot 
yet ;  please — not  until  I  am  ready." 

"Oh!"  she  cried  with  a  charming  air  of  submitting 
to  one  whose  wish  is  law,  "How  mean  of  you!  I 
know  it  is  splendid !  Are  you  satisfied  ?  Is  it  better 
than  the  other  ?  Is  it  like  me  ?" 

"I  am  sure  that  it  is  much  better  than  the  other," 
he  replied.  "It  is  as  like  you  as  I  can  make  it." 

"And  is  it  as  beautiful  as  the  other  2" 

318 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOULD 

"It  is  beautiful — as  you  are  beautiful,"  lie  an- 
swered. 

"I  shall  tell  them  all  about  it,  to-morrow  night — 
even  if  I  haven't  seen  it.  And  so  will  Jim  Kutlidge." 

Aaron  King  and  Oonrad  Lagrange  spent  that  even- 
ing at  the  little  house  next  door.  The  next  morning, 
the  artist  shut  himself  up  in  his  studio.  At  lunch 
time,  he  would  not  come  out.  Late  in  the  afternoon, 
the  novelist  went,  again,  to  knock  at  the  door. 

The  artist  called  in  a  voice  that  rang  with  triumph, 
"Come  in,  old  man,  come  in  and  help  me  celebrate." 

Entering,  Conrad  Lagrange  found  him;  sitting, 
pale  and  worn,  before  his  picture — his  palette  and 
brushes  still  in  his  hand. 

And  such  a  picture! 

A  moment,  the  novelist  who  knew — as  few  men 
know — the  world  that  was  revealed  w  th  such  fidelity 
in  that  face  upon  the  canvas,  looked ;  then,  with  weird 
and  wonderful  oaths  of  delight,  he  caught  the  tired 
artist  and  whirled  him  around  the  studio,  in  a  tri- 
umphant dance. 

"You've  done  it!  man — you've  done  it!  It's  all 
there ;  every  rotten,  stinking  shred  of  it !  Wow !  but 
it's  good — so  damned  good  that  it's  almost  inhuman. 
I  knew  you  had  it  in  you.  I  knew  it  was  in  you,  all 
the  time — if  only  you  could  come  alive.  God,  man! 
if  that  could  only  be  exhibited  alongside  the  other! 
Look  here!" 

He  dragged  the  easel  that  held  Sibyl  Andres'  por- 
trait to  a  place  beside  the  one  upon  which  the  canvas 
just  finished  rested,  and  drew  back  the  curtain.  The 
effect  was  startling. 

319 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOKLD 

"  'The  Spirit  of  Nature'  and  'The  Spirit  of  the 
Age',"  said  Conrad  Lagrange,  in  a  low  tone. 

"But  you're  ruined,  my  boy,"  he  added  gleefully. 
"You're  ruined.  These  canvases  will  never  be  ex- 
hibited. Her  own,  she'll  smash  when  she  sees  it ;  and 
you'll  be  artistically  damned  by  the  very  gods  she 
has  invoked  to  bless  you  with  fame  and  wealth.  Lord, 
but  I  envy  you !  You  have  your  chance  now — a  real 
chance  to  be  worthy  your  mother's  sacrifice. 

"Come  on,  let's  get  ready  for  the  feast." 


320 


CHAPTER  XXIX 
THE  HAND  WRITING  ON  THE  WALL 

T  was  November.  Nearly  a  year  had 
passed  since  that  day  when  the  young  man 
on  the  Golden  State  Limited — with  the 
inheritance  he  had  received  from  his 
mother's  dying  lips,  and  with  his  solemn 
promise  to  her  still  fresh  in  his  mind — 
looked  into  the  eyes  of  the  woman  on  the  platform  of 
the  observation  car.  That  same  day,  too,  he  first  saw 
the  woman  with  the  disfigured  face,  and,  for  the  first 
time,  met  the  famous  Conrad  Lagrange. 

Aaron  King  was  thinking  of  these  things  as  he  set 
out,  that  evening,  with  his  friend,  for  the  home  of 
Mrs.  Taine.  He  remarked  to  the  novelist  that  the 
time  seemed,  to  him,  many  years. 

"To  me,  Aaron,"  answered  the  strange  man,  "it 
has  been  the  happiest  and — if  you  would  not  mis- 
understand me — the  most  satisfying  year  of  my  life. 
And  this" — he  added,  his  deep  voice  betraying  his 
emotion — "this  has  been  the  happiest  day  of  the  year. 
It  is  your  independence  day.  I  shall  always  celebrate 
it  as  such — I — I  have  no  independence  day  of  my 
own  to  celebrate,  you  know." 

Aaron  King  did  not  misunderstand. 
As  the  two  men  approached  the  big  house  on  Fair- 
lands  Heights,  they  saw  that  modern  palace,  from 
concrete  foundation  to  red-tiled  roof,   ablaze  with 

321 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

many  lights.  Situated  upon  the  very  topmost  of  the 
socially  graded  levels  of  Fairlands,  it  outshone  them 
all ;  and,  quite  likely,  the  glittering  display  was  mis- 
taken by  many  dwellers  in  the  valley  below  for  a  new 
constellation  of  the  heavenly  bodies.  Quite  likely, 
too,  some  lonely  dweller,  high  up  among  the  distant 
mountain  peaks,  looked  down  upon  the  sparkling 
bauble  that  lay  for  the  moment,  as  it  were,  on  the 
wide  lap  of  the  night,  and  smiled  in  quiet  amusement 
that  the  earth  children  should  attach  such  value  to  so 
fragile  a  toy. 

As  they  passed  the  massive,  stone  pillars  of  the 
entrance  to  the  grounds,  Conrad  Lagrange  said, 
"Really,  Aaron,  don't  you  feel  a  little  ashamed  of 
yourself  ? — coming  here  to-night,  after  the  outrageous 
return  you  have  made  for  the  generous  hospitality  of 
these  people  ?  You  know  that  if  Mrs.  Taine  had  seen 
what  you  have  done  to  her  portrait,  you  could  force 
the  pearly  gates  easier  than  you  could  break  in  here." 

The  artist  laughed.  "To  tell  the  truth,  I  don't  feel 
exactly  at  home.  But  what  the  deuce  can  I  do? 
After  my  intimacy  with  them,  all  these  months,  I 
can't  assume  that  they  are  going  to  make  my  picture 
a  reason  for  refusing  to  recognize  me,  can  I  ?  As  I 
see  it,  they,  not  I,  must  take  the  initiative.  I  can't 
say :  'Well,  I've  told  the  truth  about  you,  so  throw  me 
out'." 

The  novelist  grinned.  "Thus  it  is  when  'Art'  be- 
comes entangled  with  the  family  of  'Materialism.' 
It's  hard  to  break  away  from  the  flesh-pots — even 
when  you  know  you  are  on  the  road  to  the  Promised 
Land.  But  don't  worry — 'The  Age'  will  take  the 

322 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

initiative  fast  enough  when  she  sees  your  portrait  of 
her.  Wow!  In  the  meantime,  let's  play  their  game 
to-night,  and  take  what  spoils  the  gods  may  send. 
There  will  be  material  here  for  pictures  and  stories  a 
plenty."  As  they  went  up  the  wide  steps  and  under 
the  portal  into  the  glare  of  the  lights,  and  caught  the 
sound  of  the  voices  within,  he  added  under  his 
breath,  "Lord,  man,  but  'tis  a  pretty  show ! — if  only 
things  were  called  by  their  right  names.  That  old 
Babylonian,  Belshazzar,  had  nothing  on  us  moderns 
after  all,  did  he  ?  Watch  out  for  the  writing  upon 
the  wall." 

When  Aaron  King  and  his  companion  entered  the 
spacious  rooms  where  the  pride  of  Fairlands  Heights 
and  the  eastern  lions  were  assembled,  a  buzz  of  com- 
ment went  round  the  glittering  company.  Aside 
from  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Taine,  with  practised  skill, 
had  prepared  the  way  for  her  protege,  by  subtly  stim- 
ulating the  curiosity  of  her  guests — the  appearance  of 
the  two  men,  alone,  would  have  attracted  their  atten- 
tion. The  artist,  with  his  strong,  splendidly 
proportioned,  athletic  body,  and  his  handsome,  clean- 
cut,  intellectual  face — calmly  sure  of  himself — with 
the  air  of  one  who  knows  that  his  veins  are  rich  with 
the  wealth  of  many  generations  of  true  culture  and 
refinement ;  and  the  novelist — easily  the  most  famous 
of  his  day — tall,  emaciated,  grotesquely  stooped — 
with  his  homely  face  seamed  and  lined,  world-worn 
and  old,  and  his  sharp  eyes  peering  from  under  his 
craggy  brows  with  that  analyzing,  cynical,  half- 
pathetic,  half-humorous  expression — certainly  pre- 
sented a  contrast  too  striking  to  escape  notice. 

323 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

For  an  instant,  as  comrades  side  by  side  upon  a 
battle-field  might  do,  they  glanced  over  the  scene.  To 
the  painter's  eye,  the  assembled  guests  appeared  as  a 
glittering,  shimmering,  scintillating,  cloud-like  mass 
that,  never  still,  stirred  within  itself,  in  slow,  grace- 
ful, restless  motions — forming  always,  without  pur- 
pose, new  combinations  and  groupings  that  were 
broken  up,  even  as  they  were  shaped,  to  be  reformed ; 
with  the  black  spots  and  splashes  of  the  men's  con- 
ventional dress  ever  changing  amid  the  brighter 
colors  and  textures  of  the  women's  gowns ;  the  warm 
flesh  tints  of  bare  white  arms  and  shoulders,  gleaming 
here  and  there;  and  the  flash  and  sparkle  of  jewels, 
threading  the  sheen  of  silks  and  the  filmy  softness 
of  laces.  Into  the  artist's  mind — fresh  from  the 
tragic  earnestness  of  his  day's  work,  and  still  under 
the  enduring  spell  of  his  weeks  in  the  mountains — 
flashed  a  sentence  from  a  good  old  book ;  "For  what 
is  your  life  ?  It  is  even  a  vapor,  that  appeareth  for  a 
little  time,  and  then  vanisheth  away." 

Then  they  were  greeting,  with  conventional  noth- 
ings, their  beautiful  hostess;  who,  with  a  charming 
air  of  triumphant — but  not  too  triumphant — pro- 
prietorship received  them  and  passed  them  on,  with 
a  low  spoken  word  to  Aaron  King;  "I  will  take 
charge  of  you  later." 

Conrad  Lagrange,  before  they  drifted  apart,  found 
opportunity  to  growl  in  his  companion's  ear ;  "A  near- 
great  musician — an  actress  of  divorce  court  fame — 
an  art  critic,  boon  companion  of  our  friend  Rut- 
lidge — two  free-lance  yellow  journalists — a  poet — 
with  leading  culture-club  women  of  various  brands, 

324 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOULD 

and  a  mob  of  mere  fashion  and  wealth.  The  pickings 
should  be  good.  Look  at  'Materialism',  over  there." 

In  a  wheeled  chair,  attended  by  a  servant  in  livery, 
a  little  apart  from  the  center  of  the  scene, — as  though 
the  pageant  of  life  was  about  to  move  on  without  him, 
— but  still,  with  desperate  grip,  holding  his  place  in 
the  picture,  sat  the  genius  of  it  all — the  millionaire. 
The  creature's  wasted,  skeleton-like  limbs,  were 
clothed  grotesquely  in  conventional  evening  dress. 
His  haggard,  bestial  face — repulsive  with  every  mark 
of  his  wicked,  licentious  years — grinned  with  an 
insane  determination  to  take  the  place  that  was  his 
by  right  of  his  money  bags;  while  his  glazed  and 
sunken  eyes  shone  with  fitful  gleams,  as  he  rallied 
the  last  of  his  vital  forces,  with  a  devilish  defiance  of 
the  end  that  was  so  inevitably  near. 

As  Aaron  King,  in  the  splendid  strength  of  his 
inheritance,  went  to  pay  his  respects  to  the  master  of 
the  house,  that  poor  product  of  our  age  was  seized  by 
a  paroxysm  of  coughing,  that  shook  him — gasping 
and  choking — almost  into  unconsciousness.  The 
ready  attendant  held  out  a  glass  of  whisky,  and  he 
clutched  the  goblet  with  skinny  hands  that,  in  their 
trembling  eagerness,  rattled  the  crystal  against  his 
teeth.  In  the  momentary  respite  afforded  by  the 
powerful  stimulant,  he  lifted  his  yellow,  claw-like 
hand  to  wipe  the  clammy  beads  of  sweat  that  gath- 
ered upon  his  wrinkled,  ape-like  brow;  and  the 
painter  saw,  on  one  bony,  talon-like  finger,  the  gleam- 
ing flash  of  a  magnificent  diamond. 

Mr.  Taine  greeted  the  artist  with  his  husky  whis- 
per; "Hello,  old  chap — glad  to  see  you!"  Peering 

325 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

into  the  laughing,  chattering,  glittering,  throng  he 
added,  "Some  beauties  here  to-night,  heh  ?  Gad !  my 
boy,  but  I've  seen  the  day  I'd  be  out  there  among 
them !  Ha,  ha !  Mrs.  Taine,  Louise,  and  Jim  tried 
to  shelve  me — but  I  fooled  'em.  Damn  me,  but  I'm 
game  for  a  good  time  yet !  A  little  off  my  feed,  and 
under  the  weather ;  but  game,  you  understand,  game 
as  hell!"  Then  to  the  attendant — "Where's  that 
whisky  ?"  And,  again,  his  yellow,  claw-like  hand — 
with  that  beautiful  diamond,  a  gleaming  point  of 
pure,  white  light — lifted  the  glass  to  his  grinning 
lips. 

When  Mrs.  Taine  appeared  to  claim  the  artist,  her 
husband — huddled  in  his  chair,  an  unclean  heap  of 
all  but  decaying  flesh — watched  them  go,  with  hidden, 
impotent  rage. 

A  few  moments  later,  as  Mrs.  Taine  and  her  charge 
were  leaving  one  group  of  celebrities  in  search  of  an- 
other, they  encountered  Conrad  Lagrange.  "What's 
this  I  see?"  gibed  the  novelist,  mockingly.  "Is  it 
'Art  being  led  by  Beauty  to  the  Judges  and  Execu- 
tioners' ?  or,  is  it  'Beauty  presenting  an  Artist  to  the 
Gods  of  Modern  Art'  ?" 

'You  had  better  be  helping  a  good  cause  instead  of 
making  fun,  Mr.  Lagrange,"  the  woman  retorted. 
"You  weren't  always  so  famous  yourself  that  you 
could  afford  to  be  indifferent,  you  know." 

Aaron  King  laughed  as  his  friend  replied,  "Never 
fear,  madam,  never  fear — I  shall  be  on  hand  to  assist 
at  the  obsequies." 

In  the  shifting  of  the  groups  and  figures,  when 
dinner  was  announced,  the  young  man  found  him- 

326 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOULD 

self,  again,  within  reach  of  Conrad  Lagrange;  and 
the  novelist  whispered,  with  a  grin,  "Now  for  the 
flesh-pots  in  earnest.  You  will  be  really  out  of  place 
in  the  next  act,  Aaron.  Only  we  artists  who  have 
sold  our  souls  have  a  right  to  the  price  of  our  shame. 
You  should  dine  upon  a  crust,  you  know.  A  genius 
without  his  crust,  huh !  A  devil  without  his  tail,  or 
an  ass  without  his  long  ears !" 

Most  conspicuous  in  the  brilliant  throng  assembled 
in  that  banquet  hall,  was  the  horrid  figure  of  Mr. 
Taine  who  sat  in  his  wheeled  chair  at  the  head  of  the 
table ;  his  liveried  attendant  by  his  side.  Frequently 
— as  though  compelled —  yes  were  turned  toward  that 
master  of  the  feast,  who  was,  himself,  so  far  past 
feasting;  and  toward  his  beautiful  young  wife — the 
only  woman  in  the  room,  whose  shoulders  and  arms 
were  not  bare. 

At  first,  the  talk  moved  somewhat  heavily.  Neigh- 
bor chattered  nothings  to  neighbor  in  low  tones.  It 
was  as  though  the  foreboding  presence  of  some  grim, 
unbidden  guest  overshadowed  the  spirits  of  the  com- 
pany. But  gradually  the  scene  became  more  ani- 
mated. The  glitter  of  silver  and  crystal  on  the  board ; 
the  sparkle  of  jewels  and  the  wealth  of  shimmering 
colors  that  costumed  the  diners;  with  the  strains  of 
music  that  came  from  somewhere  behind  a  floral 
screen  that  filled  the  air  with  fragrance ;  concealed,  as 
it  were,  the  hideous  image  of  immorality  which  was 
the  presiding  genius  of  the  feast.  As  the  glare  of  a 
too  bright  light  blinds  the  eyes  to  the  ditch  across 
one's  path,  so  the  brilliancy  of  their  surroundings 
blinded  the  eyes  of  his  guests  to  the  meaning  of  that 

327 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

horrid  figure  in  the  seat  of  highest  honor.  But  rich 
foods  and  rare  wines  soon  loose  the  tongues  that  chat- 
ter the  thoughts  of  those  who  do  not  think.  As  the 
glasses  were  filled  and  refilled  again,  the  scene  took 
color  from  the  sparkling  goblets.  Voices  were  raised 
to  a  higher  pitch.  Shrill  or  boisterous  laughter  rang 
out,  as  jest  and  story  went  the  rounds.  It  was  Mrs. 
Taine,  now,  rather  than  her  husband,  who  dominated 
the  scene.  With  cheeks  flushed  and  eyes  bright  she 
set  the  pace,  nor  permitted  any  laggards. 

Conrad  Lagrange  watched,  cool  and  cynical — his 
worn  face  twisted  into  a  mocking  smile;  his  keen, 
baffling  eyes,  from  under  their  scowling  brows,  seeing 
all,  understanding  all.  Aaron  King,  weary  with  the 
work  of  the  past  days,  endured — wishing  it  was  over. 

The  evening  was  well  under  way  when  Mrs.  Taine 
held  up  her  hand.  In  the  silence,  she  said,  "Listen ! 
I  have  a  real  treat  for  you,  to-night,  friends.  Listen !" 
As  she  spoke  the  last  word,  her  eyes  met  the  eyes  of 
the  artist,  in  mocking,  challenging  humor.  He  was 
wondering  what  she  meant,  when, — from  behind  that 
screen  of  flowers, — soft  and  low,  poignantly  sweet 
and  thrilling  in  its  purity  of  tone,  came  the  music  of 
the  violin  that  he  had  learned  to  know  so  well. 

Instantly,  the  painter  understood.  Mrs.  Taine  had 
employed  Sibyl  Andres  to  play  for  her  guests  that 
evening ;  thinking  to  tease  the  artist  by  presenting  his 
mountain  comrade  in  the  guise  of  a  hired  servant. 
Why  the  girl  had  not  told  him,  he  did  not  know. 
Perhaps  she  had  thought  to  enjoy  his  surprise.  The 
effect  of  the  girl's  presence — or  rather  of  her  music, 


328 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

for  she,  herself,  could  not  be  seen — upon  the  artist 
was  quite  other  than  Mrs.  Taine  intended. 

Under  the  spell  of  the  spirit  "that  spoke  in  the 
violin,  Aaron  King  was  carried  far  from  his  glitter- 
ing surroundings.  Again,  he  stood  where  the  bright 
waters  of  Clear  Creek  tumbled  among  the  granite 
boulders,  and  where  he  had  first  moved  to  answer  the 
call  of  that  music  of  the  hills.  Again,  he  followed 
the  old  wagon  road  to  the  cedar  thicket;  and,  in  the 
little,  grassy  opening  with  its  wild  roses,  its  encircling 
wilderness  growth,  and  its  old  log  house  under  the 
sheltering  sycamores,  saw  a  beautiful  girl  dancing 
with  the  unconscious  grace  of  a  woodland  sprite,  her 
arms  upheld  in  greeting  to  the  mountains.  Once 
again,  he  was  painting  in  the  sacred  quiet  of  the 
spring  glade  where  she  had  come  to  him  with  her 
three  gifts;  where,  in  maidenly  innocence,  she  had 
danced  the  dance  of  the  butterflies;  and,  later,  with 
her  music,  had  lifted  their  friendship  to  heights  of 
purity  as  far  above  the  comprehension  of  the  com- 
pany that  listened  to  her  now,  as  the  mountain  peaks 
among  the  stars  that  night  were  high  above  the  house 
on  Fairlands  Heights. 

The  music  ceased.  It  was  followed  by  the  loud 
clapping  of  hands — with  exclamations  in  high- 
pitched  voices.  "Who  is  it  ?"  "Where  did  you  find 
him  ?"  "What's  his  name  ?" — for  they  judged,  from 
Mrs.  Taine's  introductory  words,  that  she  expected 
them  to  show  their  appreciation. 

Mrs.  Taine  laughed,  and,  with  her  eyes  mockingly 
upon  the  artist's  face  answered  lightly,  "Oh,  she  is  a 


329 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOKLD 

discovery  of  mine.  She  teaches  music,  and  plays  in 
one  of  the  Fairlands  churches." 

"You  are  a  wonder,"  said  one  of  the  illustrious 
critics,  admiringly.  And  lifting  his  glass,  he  cried, 
"Here's  to  our  beautiful  and  talented  hostess — the 
patron  saint  of  all  the  arts — the  friend  of  all  true 
artists." 

In  the  quiet  that  followed  the  enthusiastic  endorse- 
ment of  the  distinguished  gentleman's  words,  an- 
other voice  said,  "If  it's  a  girl,  can't  we  see  her?" 
"Yes,  yes/'  came  from  several.  "Please,  Mrs.  Taine, 
bring  her  out."  "Have  her  play  again."  "Will  she  ?" 

Mrs.  Taine  laughed.  "Certainly,  she  will.  That's 
what  she's  here  for — to  amuse  you."  And,  again,  as 
she  spoke,  her  eyes  met  the  eyes  of  Aaron  King. 

At  her  signal,  a  servant  left  the  room.  A  moment 
later,  the  mountain  girl,  dressed  in  simple  white,  with 
no  jewel  or  ornament  other  than  a  rose  in  her  soft, 
brown  hair,  stood  before  that  company.  Unconscious 
of  the  eyes  that  fed  upon  her  loveliness ;  there  was  the 
faintest  shadow  of  a  smile  upon  her  face  as  she  met, 
in  one  swift  glance,  the  artist's  look;  then,  raising 
her  violin,  she  made  music  for  the  revelers,  at  the  will 
of  Mrs.  Taine.  As  she  stood  there  in  the  modest 
naturalness  of  her  winsome  beauty — innocent  and 
pure  as  the  flowers  that  formed  the  screen  behind  her ; 
hired  to  amuse  the  worthy  friends  and  guests  of  that 
hideously  repulsive  devotee  of  lust  and  licentious- 
ness who,  from  his  wheeled  chair,  was  glaring  at  her 
with  eyes  that  burned  insanely — she  seemed,  as  in- 
deed she  was,  a  spirit  from  another  world. 


330 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

James  Rutlidge,  his  heavy  features  flushed  with 
drink,  was  gazing  at  the  girl  with  a  look  that  be- 
trayed his  sensual  passion.  The  face  of  Conrad  La- 
grange  was  dark  and  grim  with  scowling  apprecia- 
tion of  the  situation.  Mrs.  Taine  was  looking  at  the 
artist.  And  Aaron  King,  watching  his  girl  comrade 
of  the  hills  as  she  seemed  to  listen  for  the  music  which 
she  in  turn  drew  from  the  instrument,  felt, — by  the 
very  force  of  the  contrast  between  her  and  her  sur- 
roundings,— as  he  had  never  felt  before,  the  power 
and  charm  of  her  personality — felt — and  knew  that 
Sibyl  Andres  had  come  into  his  life  to  stay. 

In  the  flood  of  emotions  that  swept  over  him,  and 
in  the  mental  and  spiritual  exultation  caused  by  her 
music  and  by  her  presence  amid  such  scenes;  it  was 
given  the  painter  to  understand  that  she  had,  in 
truth,  brought  to  him  the  strength,  the  purity,  and 
the  beauty  of  the  hills ;  that  she  had,  in  truth,  shown 
him  the  paths  that  lead  to  the  mountain  heights ;  that 
it  was  her  unconscious  influence  and  teaching  that 
had  made  it  impossible  for  him  to  prostitute  his 
genius  to  win  favor  in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  He 
knew,  now,  that  in  those  days  when  he  had  painted 
her  portrait,  as  she  stood  with  outstretched  hands  in 
the  golden  light  among  the  roses,  he  had  mixed  his 
colors  with  the  best  love  that  a  man  may  offer  a 
woman.  And  he  knew  that  the  repainting  of  that 
false  portrait  of  Mrs.  Taine,  with  all  that  it  would 
cost  him,  was  his  first  offering  to  that  love. 

The  girl  musician  finished  playing  and  slipped 
away.  When  they  would  have  recalled  her,  Mrs. 


331 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

Taine — too  well  schooled  to  betray  a  hint  of  the 
emotions  aroused  by  what  she  had  just  seen  as  she 
watched  Aaron  King — shook  her  head. 

At  that  instant,  Mr.  Taine  rose  to  his  feet,  sup- 
porting himself  by  holding  with  shaking  hands  to  the 
table.  A  hush,  sudden  as  the  hush  of  death,  fell 
upon  the  company.  The  millionaire's  attendant  put 
out  his  hand  to  steady  his  master,  and  another  serv- 
ant stepped  quickly  forward.  But  the  man  who 
clung  so  tenaciously  to  his  last  bit  of  life,  with  a 
drunken  strength  in  his  dying  limbs,  shook  them  off, 
saying  in  a  hoarse  whisper,  "Never  mind!  Never 
mind — you  fools — can't  you  see  I'm  game !" 

In  the  quiet  of  the  room,  that  a  moment  before 
rang  with  excited  voices  and  shrill  laughter,  the 
man's  husky,  straining,  whispered  boast  sounded 
like  the  mocking  of  some  invisible,  fiendish  presence 
at  the  feast. 

Lifting  a  glass  of  whisky  with  that  yellow,  claw- 
like  hand  upon  which  the  great  diamond  gleamed — 
a  spot  of  flawless  purity ;  with  his  repulsive  features 
twisted  into  a  grewsome  ugliness  by  his  straining 
effort  to  force  his  diseased  vocal  chords  to  make  his 
words  heard;  the  wretched  creature  said:  "Here's 
to  our  girl  musician.  The  prettiest — lassie  that  I — 
have  seen  for  many  a  day — and  I  think  I  know  a 
pretty  girl — when  I  see  one  too.  Who  comes  bright 
and  fresh — from  her  mountains,  to  amuse  us — and 
to  add,  to  the  beauty — and  grace  and  wit  and  genius 
— that  so  distinguishes  this  company — the  flavor  and 
the  freedom  of  her  wild-wood  home.  Her  music — is 


332 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

good,  you'll  all  agree — "  he  paused  to  cough  and  to 
look  inquiringly  around,  while  every  one  nodded 
approval  and  smiled  encouragingly.  "Her  music  is 
good — but  I — maintain  that  she,  herself,  is  better. 
To  me — her  beauty  is  more  pleasing  to  the  eye — than 
— her  fiddling  can  possibly — be  to  the  ear !"  Again 
he  was  forced  to  pause,  while  his  guests,  with  hand 
and  voice,  applauded  the  clever  words.  Lifting  the 
glass  of  whisky  toward  his  lips  that,  by  his  effort  to 
speak,  were  drawn  back  in  a  repulsive  grin,  he  leered 
at  the  celebrities  sitting  nearest.  "I  suppose  to- 
morrow— if  we  desire  the  company  of  these  distin- 
guished artists — we  will  have  to  follow — them  to  the 
mountains.  I  don't  blame  you,  gentlemen — if  I  was 
not — ah — temporarily  incapacitated — I  would  cer- 
tainly— go  for  a  little  trip  to  the  inspiring  hills — 
myself.  Even  if  I  don't  know — as  much  about  music 
and  art  as  some  of  you."  Again  his  words  were 
interrupted  by  that  racking  cough,  the  sound  of  which 
was  lost  in  the  applause  that  greeted  his  witticism. 
Lifting  the  glass  once  more,  he  continued,  "So  here's 
to  our  girl  musician — who  is  her  own — lovely  self  so 
much  more  attractive  than  any  music — she  can  ever 
make."  He  drained  the  glass,  and  sank  back  into  his 
chair,  exhausted  by  his  effort. 

Aaron  King  was  on  the  point  of  springing  to  his 
feet,  when  Conrad  Lagrange  caught  his  eye  with  a 
warning  look.  Instantly,  he  remembered  what  the 
result  would  be  if  he  should  yield  to  his  impulse. 
Wild  with  indignation,  rage,  and  burning  shame,  he 
knew  that  to  betray  himself  would  be  to  invite  a 


333 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

thousand  sneering  questions  and  insinuations  to  be- 
smirch the  name  of  the  girl  he  loved. 

In  the  continued  applause  and  laughter  that  fol- 
lowed the  drinking  of  the  millionaire's  toast,  the 
artist  caught  the  admiring  words,  "Bully  old  sport." 
"Isn't  he  game?"  "He  has  certainly  traveled  some 
pace  in  his  day."  "The  girl  is  a  beauty."  "Let's 
have  her  in  again."  This  last  expression  was  so  in- 
sistently echoed  that  Mrs.  Taine — who,  through  it  all, 
had  been  covertly  watching  Aaron  King's  face,  and 
whose  eyes  were  blazing  now  with  something  more 
than  the  effect  of  the  wine  she  had  been  drinking — 
was  forced  to  yield.  A  servant  left  the  room,  and,  a 
moment  later,  reappeared,  followed  by  Sibyl. 

The  girl  was  greeted,  now,  by  hearty  applause 
which  she,  accepting  as  an  expression  of  the  com- 
pany's appreciation  of  her  music,  received  with 
smiling  pleasure.  The  artist,  his  heart  and  soul 
aflame  with  his  awakening  love,  fought  for  self- 
control.  Conrad  Lagrange,  catching  his  eye,  again, 
silently  bade  him  wait. 

Sibyl  lifted  her  violin  and  the  noisy  company  was 
stilled.  Slowly,  under  the  spell  of  the  music  that,  to 
him,  was  a  message  from  the  mountain  heights, 
Aaron  King  grew  calm.  His  tense  muscles  relaxed. 
His  twitching  nerves  became  steady.  He  felt  him- 
self, as  it  were,  lifted  out  of  and  above  the  scene  that 
a  moment  before  had  so  stirred  him  to  indignant 
anger.  His  brain  worked  with  that  clearness  and 
precision  which  he  had  known  while  repainting  Mrs. 
Taine's  portrait.  Wrath  gave  way  to  pity ;  indigna- 


334 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOELD 

tion  to  contempt.  In  confidence,  he  smiled  to  think 
how  little  the  girl  he  loved  needed  his  poor  defense 
against  the  animalism  that  dominated  the  company 
she  was  hired  to  amuse.  With  every  eye  in  the  room 
fixed  upon  her  as  she  played,  she  was  as  far  removed 
from  those  who  had  applauded  the  suggestive  words 
of  the  dying  sensualist  as  her  music  was  beyond  their 
true  comprehension. 

Then  it  was  that  the  genius  of  the  artist  awoke. 
As  the  flash  of  a  search-light  in  the  darkness  of  night 
brings  out  with  startling  clearness  the  details  of  the 
scene  upon  which  it  is  turned,  the  painter  saw  before 
him  his  picture.  With  trained  eye  and  carefully 
acquired  skill,  he  studied  the  scene ;  impressing  upon 
his  memory  every  detail — the  rich  appointments  of 
the  room;  the  glittering  lights;  the  gleaming  silver 
and  crystal;  the  sparkling  jewels  and  shimmering 
laces ;  the  bare  shoulders ;  the  wine-flushed  faces  and 
feverish  eyes ;  and,  in  the  seat  of  honor,  the  disease- 
wasted  form  and  repulsive,  sin-marked  countenance 
of  Mr.  Taine  who — almost  unconscious  with  his  exer- 
tion— was  still  feeding  the  last  flickering  flame  of  his 
lustful  life  with  the  vision  of  the  girl  whose  beauty 
his  toast  had  profaned:  and  in  the  midst  of  that 
company — expressing  as  it  did  the  spirit  of  an  age 
that  is  ruled  by  material  wealth  and  dominated  by 
the  passions  of  the  flesh — the  center  of  every  eye,  yet, 
still,  in  her  purity  and  innocence,  removed  and  apart 
from  them  all ;  standing  in  her  simple  dress  of  white 
against  the  background  of  flowers — the  mountain  girl 
with  her  violin — offering  to  them  the  highest,  holiest. 


335 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

gift  of  the  gods — her  music.  Upon  the  girl's  lovely, 
winsome  face,  was  a  look,  now,  of  troubled  doubt. 
Her  wide,  blue  eyes,  as  she  played,  were  pleading, 
questioning,  half  fearful — as  though  she  sensed,  in- 
stinctively, the  presence  of  the  spirit  she  could  not 
understand;  and  felt,  in  spite  of  the  pretense  of  the 
applause  that  had  greeted  her,  the  rejection  of  her 
offering. 

Not  only  did  the  artist,  in  that  moment  of  concep- 
tion, see  his  picture  and  feel  the  forces  that  were 
expressed  by  every  character  in  the  composition,  but 
the  title,  even,  came  to  him  as  clearly  as  if  Conrad 
Lagrange  had  uttered  it  aloud,  "The  Feast  of  Ma- 
terialism." 

Sibyl  Andres  finished  her  music,  and  quickly  with- 
drew, as  if  to  escape  the  noisy  applause.  Amid  the 
sound  of  the  clapping  hands  and  boisterous  voices, 
Mr.  Taine,  summoning  the  last  of  his  wasted 
strength,  again  struggled  to  his  feet.  With  those 
claw-like  hands  he  held  to  the  table  for  support; 
while — shaking  in  every  limb,  his  features  twisted 
into  a  horrid,  leering  grin — he  looked  from  face  to 
face  of  the  hushed  and  silent  company;  with  glazed 
eyes  in  which  the  light  that  flickered  so  feebly  was 
still  the  light  of  an  impotent  lust. 

Twice,  the  man  essayed  to  speak,  but  could  not. 
The  room  grew  still  as  death.  Then,  suddenly — as 
they  looked — he  lifted  that  yellow,  skinny  hand,  to 
his  wrinkled,  ape-like  brow,  and — partially  loosing, 
thus,  his  supporting  grip  upon  the  table — fell  back, 
in  a  ghastly  heap  of  diseased  flesh  and  fine  raiment; 

336 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

in  the  midst  of  which  blazed  the  great  diamond — as 
though  the  cold,  pure  beauty  of  the  inanimate  stone 
triumphed  in  a  life  more  vital  than  that  of  its  wearer. 

His  servants  carried  the  unconscious  master  of  the 
house  from  the  room.  Mrs.  Taine,  excusing  herself, 
followed. 

In  the  confusion  that  ensued,  the  musicians,  hid- 
den behind  the  floral  screen,  struck  up  a  lively  air. 
Some  of  the  guests  made  quiet  preparations  for  leav- 
ing. A  group  of  those  men — famous  in  the  world  of 
art  and  letters — under  the  influence  of  the  wine  they 
had  taken  so  freely,  laughed  loudly  at  some  coarse 
jest.  Others,  thinking,  perhaps, — if  they  could  be 
said  to  think  at  all, — that  their  host's  attack  was  not 
serious,  renewed  conversations  and  bravely  attempted 
to  restore  a  semblance  of  animation  to  the  interrupted 
revelries. 

Aaron  King  worked  his  way  to  the  side  of  Conrad 
Lagrange,  "For  God's  sake,  old  man,  let's  get  out  of 
here." 

"I'll  find  Rutlidge  or  Louise  or  some  one,"  returned 
the  other,  and  disappeared. 

As  the  artist  waited,  through  the  open  door  of  an 
adjoining  room,  he  caught  sight  of  Sibyl  Andres; 
who,  with  her  violin-case  in  her  hand,  was  about  to 
leave.  Obeying  his  impulse,  he  went  to  her. 

"What  in  the  world  are  you  doing  here  ?"  he  said 
almost  roughly — extending  his  hand  to  take  the  in- 
strument she  carried. 

She  seemed  a  little  bewildered  by  his  manner,  but 
smiled  as  she  retained  her  violin.  "I  am  here  to  earn 
my  bread  and  butter,  sir.  What  are  you  doing  here  ?" 

337 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  lie  said.  "I  did  not  mean  to 
be  rude." 

She  laughed,  then,  with  a  troubled  air — "But  is  it 
not  right  for  me  to  be  here  ?  It  is  all  right  for  me  to 
play  for  these  people,  isn't  it  ?  Myra  didn't  want  me 
to  come,  but  we  needed  the  money,  and  Mrs.  Taine 
was  so  generous.  I  didn't  tell  you  and  Mr.  Lagrange 
because  I  wanted  the  fun  of  surprising  you."  As  he 
stood  looking  at  her  so  gravely,  she  put  out  her  hand 
impulsively  to  his  arm.  "What  is  it,  oh,  what  is  it  ? 
How  have  I  done  wrong  ?" 

"You  have  done  no  wrong,  my  dear  girl,"  he  an- 
swered. "It  is  only  that — " 

He  was  interrupted  by  the  cold,  clear  voice  of  Mrs. 
Taine,  who  had  entered  the  room,  unnoticed  by  them. 
"I  see  you  are  going,  Miss  Andres.  Good-night.  I 
will  mail  you  a  check  to-morrow.  Your  music  was 
very  satisfactory.  An  automobile  is  waiting  to  take 
you  home.  Good  night." 

Before  Aaron  King  could  speak,  the  girl  was  gone. 

"Mr.  Lagrange  and  I  were  just  about  to  go,"  said 
the  artist,  as  the  woman  faced  him.  "I  hope  Mr. 
Taine  has  not  suffered  severely  from  the  excitement 
of  the  evening  ?" 

The  woman's  cheeks  were  flushed,  and  her  eyes 
were  bright  with  feverish  excitement.  Going  close  to 
him,  she  said  in  a  low,  hurried  tone,  "'No,  no,  you 
must  not  go.  Mr.  Taine  is  all  right  in  his  room. 
Every  one  else  is  having  a  good  time.  You  must  not 
go.  Come,  I  have  had  no  opportunity,  at  all,  to  have 
you  to  myself  for  a  single  moment.  Come,  I — " 


338 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

As  she  had  interrupted  Aaron  King's  reply  to 
Sibyl  Andres,  the  cool,  sarcastic  tones  of  Conrad  La- 
grange's  deep  voice  interrupted  her.  "Mrs.  Taine, 
they  are  hunting  for  you  all  over  the  house.  Your 
husband  is  calling  for  you.  I'm  sure  that  Mr.  King 
will  excuse  you,  under  the  circumstances." 


CHAPTER  XXX 


IN  THE  SAME  HOUR 

N"  a  splendid  chamber,  surrounded  by  every 
comfort  and  luxury  that  dollars  could  buy, 
and  attended  by  liveried  servants,  Mr. 
Taine  was  dying. 

The  physician  who  met  Mrs.  Taine  at 
the  door,   answered  her  look  of  inquiry 
with;  "Your  husband  is  very  near  the  end,  madam." 
Beside  the  bed,  sat  Louise,  wringing  her  hands  and 
moaning.      James   Rutlidge   stood    near.      Without 
speaking,  Mrs.  Taine  went  forward. 

The  doctor,  bending  over  his  patient,  with  his  fin- 
gers upon  the  skeleton-like  wrist,  said,  "Mr.  Taine, 
Mr.  Taine,  your  wife  is  here." 

In  response,  the  eyes,  deep  sunken  under  the 
wrinkled  brow,  opened ;  the  loosely  hanging,  sensual 
lips  quivered. 

The  physician  spoke  again;  "Your  wife  is  here, 
Mr.  Taine." 

A  sudden  gleam  of  light  flared  up  in  the  glazed 
eyes.  The  doctor  could  have  sworn  that  the  lips  were 
twisted  into  a  shadow  of  a  ghastly,  mocking  smile. 
As  if  summoning,  by  a  supreme  effort  of  his  will, 
from  some  unguessed  depths  of  his  being,  the  last 
remnant  of  his  remaining  strength,  the  man  looked 
about  the  room  and,  in  a  hoarse  whisper,  said,  "Send 
the  others  away — everybody — but  her." 

340 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

"O  papa,  papa!"  exclaimed  poor  Louise,  protest- 
ingly. 

"Never  mind,  daughter,"  came  the  whispered  an- 
swer from  the  bed.  "Try  to  be  game,  girl — game  as 
your  father.  Take  her  away,  Jim." 

As  the  physician  passed  Mrs.  Taine,  who  had  thus 
far  stood  like  a  statue,  seemingly  incapable  of  thought 
or  feeling  or  movement,  he  said  in  a  low  tone,  "I  will 
be  just  outside  the  door,  madam ;  easily  within  call." 

When  only  the  woman  was  left  in  the  room  with 
her  husband,  the  dying  man  spoke  again ;  "Come 
here.  Stand  where  I  can  see  you." 

Mechanically,  she  obeyed;  moving  to  a  position 
near  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

After  a  moment's  silence,  during  which  he  seemed 
to  be  rallying  the  very  last  of  his  vital  forces  for  the 
effort,  he  said,  "Well — the  game  is  played — out. 
You  think — you're  the  winner.  You're — wrong — 
damn  you — you're  wrong.  I  wasn't — so  drunk  to- 
night that — I  couldn't  see."  His  face  twisted  in  a 
hideous,  malicious  grin.  "You — love — that  artist 
fellow.  Your — interest  in  his  art  is — all  rot.  It's 
him  you  want — and  you — you  have  been  thinking — 
you'd  get  him — with  my  money — the  same  as  I  got 
you.  But  you  won't.  You've — lost  him  already. 
I'm  glad — you  love  him — damn  glad — because — I 
know  that  after — what  he's  seen  of  me — even  if  he 
didn't  love — that  mountain — girl,  he  wouldn't  wipe 
— his  feet  on  you.  You've  tortured  me — you've 
mocked — and  sneered  and  laughed — at  me — in  my 
suffering — you  fiend — and  I've — tried  my  damnedest 
— to  pay  you  back.  What  I  couldn't  do — the  man 

341 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

you  love — will — do  for  me.  You'll  suffer — now  in 
earnest.  You  thought  you'd  be  a — sure  winner — as 
soon — as  I  was  out  of — the  game.  But  you've  lost — 
you've  lost — you've  lost !  I  saw  your  love  for  him — 
in  your — face  to-night—as  I  have  seen — it  every 
time — you  two  were  together.  I  saw  his  love — for 
the  girl — too — and  I — saw — that  you — saw  it.  I — 
I — wouldn't — wouldn't  die — until  I'd  told  you — 
that  I  knew."  He  paused  to  gather  his  strength  for 
the  last  evil  effort  of  his  evil  life. 

The  woman — who  had  stood,  frozen  with  horror, 
her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  face  of  the  dying  man,  as 
though  under  a  dreadful  spell — cowered  before  him, 
livid  with  fear.  Cringing,  helpless — as  though  be- 
fore some  infernal  monster — she  hid  her  face;  while 
her  husband,  struggling  for  breath  to  make  her  hear, 
called  her  every  foul  name  he  could  master — derided 
her  with  fiendish  glee — mocked  her,  taunted  her, 
cursed  her — with  words  too  vile  to  print.  With  an 
oath  and  a  profane  wish  for  her  future  upon  his  lips, 
the  end  came.  The  sensual  mouth  opened — the  dis- 
eased wasted  limbs  shuddered — the  insane  light  in 
the  lust-worn  eyes  went  out. 

With  a  scream,  Mrs.  Taine  sank  unconscious  upon 
the  floor  beside  the  bed. 

From  the  lower  part  of  the  house  came  the  faint 
sounds  of  the  few  remaining  revelers. 


When  Aaron  King  and  Conrad  Lagrange  left  the 
house  on  Fairlands  Heights  that  night,  they  walked 
quickly,  as  though  eager  to  escape  from  the  brilliantly 

342 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

lighted  vicinity.  Neither  spoke  until  they  were  some 
distance  away.  Then  the  novelist,  checking  his  quick 
stride,  pointed  toward  the  shadowy  bulk  of  the  moun- 
tains that  heaved  their  mighty  crests  and  peaks  in 
solemn  grandeur  high  into  the  midnight  sky. 

"Well,  boy,"  he  said,  "the  mountains  are  still  there. 
It's  good  to  see  them  again,  isn't  it  ?" 

Reaching  home,  the  older  man  bade  his  friend 
good  night.  But  the  artist,  declaring  that  he  was  not 
yet  ready  to  turn  in,  went,  with  pipe  and  Czar  for 
company,  to  sit  for  a  while  on  the  porch. 

Looking  away  over  the  dark  mass  of  the  orange 
groves  to  the  distant  peaks,  he  lived  over  again,  in  his 
thoughts,  those  weeks  of  comradeship  with  Sibyl  An- 
dres in  the  hills.  Every  incident  of  their  friendship 
he  recalled — every  hour  they  had  spent  together  amid 
the  scenes  she  loved — reviewing  every  conversation — 
questioning,  searching,  wondering,  hoping,  fearing. 

Later,  he  went  out  into  the  rose  garden — her  gar- 
den— where  the  air  was  fragrant  with  the  perfume  of 
the  flowers  she  tended  with  such  loving  care.  In  the 
soft,  still  darkness  of  the  night,  the  place  seemed 
haunted  by  her  presence.  Quietly,  he  moved  here 
and  there  among  the  roses — to  the  little  gate  in  the 
Ragged  Robin  hedge,  through  which  she  came  and 
went;  to  the  vine-covered  arbor  where  she  had 
watched  him  at  his  work;  and  to  the  spot  where  she 
had  stood,  day  after  day,  with  hands  outstretched  in 
greeting,  while  he  worked  to  make  the  colors  and  lines 
upon  his  canvas  tell  the  secret  of  her  loveliness.  He 
remembered  how  he  had  felt  her  presence  in  those 
days  when  he  had  laughingly  insisted  to  Conrad  La- 

343 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

grange  that  the  place  was  haunted.  He  remembered 
how,  even  when  she  was  unknown  to  him,  her  music 
had  always  moved  him — how  her  message  from  the 
hills  had  seemed  to  call  to  the  best  that  was  in  him. 

So  it  was,  that,  as  he  recalled  these  things, — as  he 
lived  again  the  days  of  his  companionship  with  her 
and  realized  how  she  had  come  into  his  life,  how  she 
had  appealed  always  to  the  best  of  him,  and  satisfied 
always  his  best  needs, — he  came  to  know  the  answer 
to  his  questions — to  his  doubts  and  fears  and  hopes. 
There,  in  the  rose  garden,  with  its  dark  walls  of 
hedge  and  vine  and  grove,  in  the  still  night  under  the 
stars,  with  his  face  to  the  distant  mountains,  he  knew 
that  the  mountain  girl  would  not  deny  him — that, 
when  she  was  ready,  she  would  come  to  him. 

In  the  hour  when  Mr.  Taine,  with  the  last  strength 
of  his  evil  life,  profanely  cursed  the  woman  that  his 
gold  had  bought  to  serve  his  licentious  will — and 
cursing — died ;  Aaron  King — inspired  by  the  charac- 
ter and  purity  of  the  woman  he  loved,  and  by  whom 
he  knew  he  was  loved,  and  dreaming  of  their  com- 
radeship that  was  to  be — dedicated  himself  anew  to 
the  ministry  of  his  art  and  so  entered  into  that  more 
abundant  life  which  belongs  by  divine  right  to  all 
who  will  claim  it. 

But  it  was  not  given  Aaron  King  to  know  that  be- 
fore Sibyl  Andres  could  come  to  him  he  must  be 
tested  by  a  trial  that  would  tax  his  manhood's  best 
strength  to  the  uttermost.  In  that  night  of  his  awak- 
ened love,  as  he  dreamed  of  the  days  of  its  realization, 
the  man  did  not  know  that  the  days  of  his  testing 
were  so  near  at  hand. 

344 


CHAPTEE  XXXI 


AS  THE  WORLD  SEES 

T  was  three  days  after  the  incidents  just 
related  when  an  automobile  from  Fair- 
lands  Heights  stopped  at  the  home  of 
Aaron  King  and  the  novelist. 

Mrs.     Taine,    dressed    in    black    and 
heavily  veiled,  went,  alone,  to  the  house, 
where  Yee  Kee  appeared  in  answer  to  her  ring. 

There  was  no  one  at  home,  the  Chinaman  said.  He 
did  not  know  where  the  artist  was.  He  had  gone  off 
somewhere  with  Mr.  Lagrange  and  the  dog.  Perhaps 
they  would  return  in  a  few  minutes;  perhaps  not 
until  dinner  time. 

Mrs.  Taine  was  exceedingly  anxious  to  see  Mr. 
King.  She  was  going  away,  and  must  see  him,  if 
possible,  before  she  left.  She  would  come  in,  and, 
if  Yee  Kee  would  get  her  pen  and  paper,  would  write 
a  little  note,  explaining — in  case  she  should  miss  him. 
The  Chinaman  silently  placed  the  writing  material 
before  her,  and  disappeared. 

Before  sitting  down  to  her  letter,  the  woman  paced 
the  floor  restlessly,  in  nervous  agitation.  Her  face, 
when  she  had  thrown  back  the  veil,  appeared  old  and 
worn,  with  dark  circles  under  the  eyes,  and  a  drawn 
look  to  the  weary,  downward  droop  of  the  lips.  AB 
she  moved  about  the  room,  nervously  fingering  the 

345 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

books  and  trifles  upon  the  table  or  the  mantle,  she 
seemed  beside  herself  with  anxiety.  She  went  to  the 
window  to  stand  looking  out  as  if  hoping  for  the  re- 
turn of  the  artist.  She  went  to  the  open  door  of  his 
bedroom,  her  hands  clenched,  her  limbs  trembling, 
her  face  betraying  the  agony  of  her  mind. 

With  Louise,  she  was  leaving  that  evening,  at  four 
o'clock,  for  the  East — with  the  body  of  her  husband. 
She  could  not  go  without  seeing  again  the  man  whom, 
as  Mr.  Taine  had  rightly  said,  she  loved — loved  with 
the  only  love  of  which — because  of  her  environment 
and  life — she  was  capable.  She  still  believed  in  her 
power  over  him  whose  passion  she  had  besieged  with 
all  the  lure  of  her  physical  beauty,  but  that  which 
she  had  seen  in  his  face  as  he  had  watched  the  girl 
musician  the  night  of  the  dinner,  filled  her  with  fear. 
Presently,  in  her  desperation,  when  the  artist  did  not 
return,  she  seated  herself  at  the  table  to  put  upon 
paper,  as  best  she  could,  the  things  she  had  come  to 
say. 

Her  letter  finished,  she  looked  at  her  watch.  Call- 
ing the  Chinaman,  she  asked  for  a  key  to  the  studio, 
explaining  that  she  wished  to  see  her  picture.  She 
still  hoped  for  the  artist's  return  and  that  her  letter 
would  not  be  necessary.  She  hoped,  too,  that  in  her 
portrait,  which  she  had  not  yet  seen,  she  might  find 
some  evidence  of  the  painter's  passion  for  her.  She 
had  not  forgotten  his  saying  that  he  would  put  upon 
the  canvas  what  he  thought  of  her,  nor  could  she  fail 
to  recall  his  manner  and  her  interpretation  of  it  as 
he  had  worked  upon  the  picture. 


346 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

In  the  studio,  she  stood  before  the  easel,  scarce 
daring  to  draw  the  curtain.  But,  calling  up  in  her 
mind  the  emotions  and  thoughts  of  the  hours  she  had 
spent  in  that  room  alone  with  the  artist,  she  was  made 
bold  by  her  reestablished  belief  in  his  passion  and  by 
her  convictions  that  were  founded  upon  her  own  de- 
sires. Under  the  stimulating  influence  of  her 
thoughts,  a  flush  of  color  stole  into  her  cheeks,  her 
eyes  grew  bright  with  the  light  of  triumphant 
anticipation.  With  an  eager  hand  she  boldly  drew 
aside  the  curtain. 

The  picture  upon  the  easel  was  the  artist's  portrait 
of  Sibyl  Andres. 

With  an  exclamation  that  was  not  unlike  fear,  Mrs. 
Taine  drew  back  from  the  canvas.  Looking  at  the 
beautiful  painting, — in  which  the  artist  had  pictured, 
with  unconscious  love  and  an  almost  religious  fidelity, 
the  spirit  of  the  girl  who  was  so  like  the  flowers 
among  which  she  stood, — the  woman  was  moved  by 
many  conflicting  emotions.  Surprise,  disappoint- 
ment, admiration,  envy,  jealousy,  sadness,  regret,  and 
anger  swept  over  her.  Blinded  by  bitter  tears,  with  a 
choking  sob,  in  an  agony  of  remorse  and  shame,  she 
turned  away  her  face  from  the  gaze  of  those  pure 
eyes.  Then,  as  the  flame  of  her  passion  withered  her 
shame,  hot  rage  dried  her  tears,  and  she  sprang  for- 
ward, with  an  animal-like  fierceness,  to  destroy  the 
picture.  But,  even  as  she  put  forth  her  hand,  she 
hesitated  and  drew  back,  afraid.  As  she  stood  thus 
in  doubt — halting  between  her  impulse  and  her  fear 
— a  sound  at  the  door  behind  her  drew  her  attention. 


347 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

She  turned  to  face  the  beautiful  original  of  the  por- 
trait. Instantly  the  woman  of  the  world  had  herself 
perfectly  in  hand. 

Sibyl  Andres  drew  back  with  an  embarrassed,  "I 
beg  your  pardon.  I  thought — "  and  would  have  fled. 

But  Mrs.  Taine,  with  perfect  cordiality,  said 
quickly,  "O  how  do  you  do,  Miss  Andres ;  come  in." 

She  seemed  so  sincere  in  the  welcome  that  was  im- 
plied in  her  voice  and  manner;  while  her  face, 
together  with  her  somber  garb  of  mourning,  was  so 
expressive  of  sadness  and  grief  that  the  girl's  gentle 
heart  was  touched.  Going  forward,  with  that  natural 
dignity  that  belongs  to  those  whose  minds  and  hearts 
are  unsullied  by  habitual  pretense  of  feeling  and 
sham  emotions,  Sibyl  spoke  a  few  well  chosen  words 
of  sympathy. 

Mrs.  Taine  received  the  girl's  expression  of  con- 
dolence with  a  manner  that  was  perfect  in  its  sem- 
blance of  carefully  controlled  sorrow  and  grief,  yet 
managed,  skillfully,  to  suggest  the  wide  social  dis- 
tance that  separated  the  widow  of  Mr.  Taine 
from  the  unknown,  mountain  girl.  Then,  as  if 
courageously  determined  not  to  dwell  upon  her 
bereavement,  she  said,  "I  was  just  looking,  again, 
at  Mr.  King's  picture — for  which  you  posed.  It  is 
beautiful,  isn't  it  ?  He  told  me  that  you  were  an 
exceptionally  clever  model — quite  the  best  he  has 
ever  had." 

The  girl — disarmed  by  her  own  genuine  feeling  of 
sympathy  for  the  speaker — was  troubled  at  something 
that  seemed  to  lie  beneath  the  kindly  words  of  the 
experienced  woman.  "To  me,  it  is  beautiful,"  she 

348 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOELD 

returned  doubtfully.  "But,  of  course,  I  don't  know. 
Mr.  Lagrange  thinks,  though,  that  it  is  really  a 
splendid  portrait." 

Mrs.  Taine  smiled  with  a  confident  air,  as  one 
might  smile  at  a  child.  "Mr.  Lagrange,  my  dear,  is 
a  famous  novelist — but  he  really  knows  very  little  of 
pictures." 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,"  returned  Sibyl,  simply. 
"But  the  picture  is  not  to  be  shown  as  a  portrait  of 
me,  at  all." 

Again,  that  knowing  smile.  "So  I  understand,  of 
course.  Under  the  circumstances,  you  would 
scarcely  expect  it,  would  you  ?" 

Sibyl,  not  in  the  least  understanding  what  the 
woman  meant,  answered  doubtfully,  "No.  I — I  did 
not  wish  it  shown  as  my  portrait." 

Mrs.  Taine,  studying  the  girl's  face,  became  very 
earnest  in  her  kindly  interest;  as  if,  moved  out  of 
the  goodness  of  her  heart,  she  stooped  from  her  high 
place  to  advise  and  counsel  .  ae  of  her  own  sex,  who 
was  so  wholly  ignorant  of  the  world.  "I  fear,  my 
dear,  that  you  know  very  little  of  artists  and  their 
methods." 

To  which  the  girl  replied,  "I  never  knew  an  artist 
before  I  met  Mr.  King,  this  summer,  in  the 
mountains." 

Still  watching  her  face  closely,  Mrs.  Taine  said, 
with  gentle  solicitude,  "May  I  tell  you  something 
for  your  own  good,  Miss  Andres  ?" 

"Certainly,  if  you  please,  Mrs.  Taine." 

"An  artist,"  said  the  older  woman,  carefully,  with 
an  air  of  positive  knowledge,  "must  find  the  subjects 

349 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

for  his  pictures  in  life.  As  he  goes  about,  he  is 
constantly  on  the  look-out  for  new  faces  or  figures 
that  are  of  interest  to  him — or,  that  may  be  used  by 
him  to  make  pictures  of  interest.  The  subjects — or, 
I  should  say,  the  people  who  pose  for  him — are  noth- 
ing at  all  to  the  artist — aside  from  his  picture,  you 
see — no  more  than  his  paints  and  brushes  and  canvas. 
Often,  they  are  professional  models,  whom  he  hires 
as  one  hires  any  sort  of  service,  you  know.  Some- 
times— "  she  paused  as  if  hesitating,  then  continued 
gently — "sometimes  they  are  people  like  yourself, 
who  happen  to  appeal  to  his  artistic  fancy,  and  whom 
he  can  persuade  to  pose  for  him." 

The  girl's  face  was  white.  She  stared  at  the 
woman  with  pleading,  frightened  dismay.  She  made 
a  pitiful  attempt  to  speak,  but  could  not. 

The  older  woman,  watching  her,  continued,  "For- 
give me,  dear  child.  I  do  not  wish  to  hurt  you.  But 
Mr.  King  is  so  careless.  I  told  him  be  should  be 
careful  that  you  did  not  misunderstand  his  interest 
in  you.  But  he  laughed  at  me.  He  said  that  it  was 
your  innocence  that  he  wanted  to  paint,  and  cautioned 
me  not  to  warn  you  until  his  picture  was  finished." 
She  turned  to  look  at  the  picture  on  the  easel  with  the 
air  of  a  critic.  "He  really  has  caught  it  very  well. 
Aaron — Mr.  King  is  so  good  at  that  sort  of  thing.  He 
never  permits  his  models  to  know  exactly  what  he  is 
after,  you  see,  but  leads  them,  cleverly,  to  exhibit, 
unconsciously,  the  particular  thing  that  he  wishes  to 
get  into  his  picture." 

When  the  tortured  girl  had  been  given  time  to 
grasp  the  full  import  of  her  words,  the  woman  said 

350 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

again, — turning  toward  Sibyl,  as  she  spoke,  with  a 
smiling  air  that  was  intended  to  show  the  intimacy 
between  herself  and  the  artist, — "Have  you  seen  his 
portrait  of  me?" 

"No,"  faltered  Sibyl.  "Mr.  King  told  me  not  to 
look  at  it.  It  has  always  been  covered  when  I  have 
been  in  the  studio." 

Again,  Mrs.  Taine  smiled,  as  though  there  was 
some  reason,  known  only  to  herself  and  the  painter, 
why  he  did  not  wish  the  girl  to  see  the  portrait.  "And 
do  you  come  to  the  studio  often — alone  as  you  came 
to-day?"  she  asked,  still  kindly,  as  though  from  her 
experience  she  was  seeking  to  counsel  the  girl.  "I 
mean — have  you  been  coming  since  the  picture  for 
which  you  posed  was  finished  ?" 

The  girl's  white  cheeks  grew  red  with  embarrass- 
ment and  shame  as  she  answered,  falteringly,  "Yes." 

"You  poor  child !  Really,  I  must  scold  Aaron  for 
this.  After  my  warning  him,  too,  that  people  were 
talking  about  his  intimacy  with  you  in  the  moun- 
tains! It  is  quite  too  bad  of  him!  He  will  ruin 
himself,  if  he  is  not  more  careful."  She  seemed  sin- 
cerely troubled  over  the  situation. 

"I — I  do  not  understand,  Mrs.  Taine,"  faltered 
Sibyl.  "Do  you  mean  that  my — that  Mr.  King's 
friendship  for  me  has  harmed  him  ?  That  I — that  it 
is  wrong  for  me  to  come  here  ?" 

'•'Surely,  Miss  Andres,  you  must  understand  what 
I  mean." 

"No,  I — I  do  not  know.    Tell  me,  please." 

Mrs.  Taine  hesitated  as  though  reluctant.  Then, 
as  if  forced  by  her  sense  of  duty,  she  spoke.  "The 

351 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOELD 

truth  is,  ray  dear,  that  your  being  with  Mr.  King  in 
the  mountains — going  to  his  camp  as  familiarly  as 
you  did,  and  spending  so  much  time  alone  with  him 
in  the  hills — and  then  your  coming  here  so  often, 
has  led  people  to  say  unpleasant  things." 

"But  what  do  people  say  ?"  persisted  Sibyl. 

The  answer  came  with  cruel  deliberateness ;  "That 
you  are  not  only  Mr.  King's  model,  but  that  you  are 
his  mistress  as  well." 

Sibyl  Andres  shrank  back  from  the  woman  as 
though  she  had  received  a  blow  in  the  face.  Her 
cheeks  and  brow  and  neck  were  crimson.  With  a 
little  cry,  she  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 

The  kind  voice  of  the  older  woman  continued, 
"You  see,  dear,  whether  it  is  true  or  not,  the  effect 
is  exactly  the  same.  If  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  your 
relations  to  Mr.  King  are — are  wrong,  it  is  as  bad 
as  though  it  were  actually  true.  I  felt  that  I  must 
tell  you,  child,  not  alone  for  your  own  good  but  for 
the  sake  of  Mr.  King  and  his  work — for  the  sake  of 
his  position  in  the  world.  Frankly,  if  you  continue 
to  compromise  him  and  his  good  name  by  coming  like 
this  to  his  studio,  it  will  ruin  him.  The  world  may 
not  care  particularly  whether  Mr.  King  keeps  a  mis- 
tress or  not,  but  people  will  not  countenance  his  open 
association  with  her,  even  under  the  pretext  that  she 
is  a  model." 

As  she  finished,  Mrs.  Taine  looked  at  her  watch. 
"Dear  me,  I  really  must  be  going.  I  have  already 
spent  more  time  than  I  intended.  Good-by,  Miss 
Andres.  I  know  you  will  forgive  me  if  I  have  hurt 
you." 

352 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

The  girl  looked  at  her  with  the  pain  and  terror 
filled  eyes  of  some  gentle  wild  creature  that  can  not 
understand  the  cruelty  of  the  trap  that  holds  it  fast. 
"Yes — yes,  I — I  suppose  you  know  best.  You  must 

know  more  than  L       I — thank  you,  Mrs.  Taine. 
j » 

When  Mrs.  Taine  was  gone,  Sibyl  Andres  sat  for 
a  little  while  before  her  portrait ;  wondering,  dumbly, 
at  the  happiness  of  that  face  upon  the  canvas.  There 
were  no  tears.  She  could  not  cry.  Her  eyes  burned 
hot  and  dry.  Her  lips  were  parched.  Rising,  she 
drew  the  curtain  carefully  to  hide  the  picture,  and 
started  toward  the  door.  She  paused.  Going  to  the 
easel  that  held  the  other  picture,  she  laid  her  hand 
upon  the  curtain.  Again,  she  paused.  Aaron  King 
had  said  that  she  must  not  look  at  that  picture — 
Conrad  Lagrange  had  said  that  she  must  not — why  ? 
She  did  not  know  why. 

Perhaps — if  the  mountain  girl  had  drawn  aside 
the  curtain  and  had  looked  upon  the  face  of  Mrs. 
Taine  as  Aaron  King  had  painted  it — perhaps  the 
rest  of  my  story  would  not  have  happened. 

But,  true  to  the  wish  of  her  friends,  even  in  her 
misery,  Sibyl  Andres  held  her  hand.  At  the  door  of 
the  studio,  she  turned  again,  to  look  long  and  linger- 
ingly  about  the  room.  Then  she  went  out,  closing 
and  locking  the  door,  and  leaving  the  key  on  a  hidden 
nail,  as  her  custom  was. 

Going  slowly,  lingeringly,  through  the  rose  garden 
to  the  little  gate  in  the  hedge,  she  disappeared  in  the 
orange  grove. 

Aaron  King  and  Conrad  Lagrange,  returning  from 

353 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

a  long  walk,  overtook  Myra  Willard,  who  was  return- 
ing from  town,  just  as  the  woman  of  the  disfigured 
face  arrived  at  the  gate  of  the  little  house  in  the 
orange  grove.  For  a  moment,  the  three  stood  chat- 
ting,— as  neighbors  will, — then  the  two  men  went  on 
to  their  own  home.  Czar,  racing  ahead,  announced 
their  coming  to  Yee  Kee  and  the  Chinaman  met  them 
as  they  entered  the  living-room.  Telling  them  of 
Mrs.  Taine's  visit,  he  gave  Aaron  King  the  letter 
that  she  had  left  for  him. 

As  the  artist,  conscious  of  the  scrutinizing  gaze  of 
his  friend,  read  the  closely  written  pages,  his  cheeks 
flushed  with  embarrassment  and  shame.  When  he 
had  finished,  he  faced  the  novelist's  eyes  steadily  and, 
without  speaking,  deliberately  and  methodically  tore 
Mrs.  Taine's  letter  into  tiny  fragments.  Dropping 
the  scraps  of  paper  into  the  waste  basket,  he  dusted 
his  hands  together  with  a  significant  gesture  and 
looked  at  his  watch.  "Her  train  left  at  four  o'clock. 
It  is  now  four-thirty." 

"For  which,"  returned  Conrad  Lagrange,  solemnly, 
"let  us  give  thanks." 

As  the  novelist  spoke,  Czar,  on  the  porch  outside, 
gave  a  low  "woof"  that  signalized  the  approach  of  a 
friend. 

Looking  through  the  open  door,  they  saw  Myra 
Willard  coming  hurriedly  up  the  walk.  They  could 
see  that  the  woman  was  greatly  agitated,  and  went 
quickly  forward  to  meet  her. 

Women  of  Myra  Willard's  strength  of  character — 
particularly  those  who  have  passed  through  the  fur- 


354 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

nace  of  some  terrible  experience  as  she  so  evidently 
had — are  not  given  to  loud,  uncontrolled  expression 
of  emotion.  That  she  was  alarmed  and  troubled  was 
evident.  Her  face  was  white,  her  eyes  were  fright- 
ened, and  she  trembled  so  that  Aaron  King  helped 
her  to  a  seat;  but  she  told  them  clearly,  with  no 
unnecessary,  hysterical  exclamations,  what  had  hap- 
pened. Upon  entering  the  house,  after  parting  from 
the  two  men  at  the  gate,  a  few  minutes  before,  she 
had  found  a  letter  from  Sibyl.  The  girl  was  gone. 

As  she  spoke,  she  handed  the  letter  to  Conrad 
Lagrange  who  read  it  and  gave  it  to  the  artist  It 
was  a  pitiful  little  note — rather  vague — saying  only 
that  she  must  go  away  at  once;  assuring  Myra  that 
she  had  not  meant  to  do  wrong;  asking  her  to  tell 
If  r.  King  and  the  novelist  good-by ;  and  begging  the 
artist's  forgiveness  that  she  had  not  understood. 

Aaron  King  looked  from  the  letter  in  his  hand  to 
the  faces  of  his  two  friends,  in  consternation.  "Do 
you  understand  this,  Miss  Willard  ?"  he  asked,  when 
he  could  speak. 

The  woman  shook  her  head.  "Only  that  something 
has  happened  to  make  the  child  think  that  her  friend- 
ship with  you  has  injured  you ;  and  that  she  has  gone 
away  for  your  sake.  She — she  thought  so  much  of 
you,  Mr.  King." 

"And  I — I  love  her,  Miss  Willard.  I  should  have 
told  you  soon.  I  tell  you  now  to  reassure  you.  I 
love  her." 

Aaron  King  made  his  declaration  to  his  two 
friends  with  a  simple  dignity,  but  with  a  feeling  that 


355 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOKLD 

thrilled  them  with  the  force  of  his  earnestness  and 
the  purity  and  strength  of  his  passion. 

Conrad  Lagrange — world-worn,  scarred  by  his 
years  of  contact  with  the  unclean,  the  vicious,  and 
debasing  passions  of  mankind — grasped  the  young 
man's  hand,  while  his  eyes  shone  with  an  emotion  his 
habitual  reserve  could  not  conceal.  "I'm  glad  for 
you,  Aaron" — he  said,  adding  reverently — "as  your 
mother  would  be  glad." 

"I  have  known  that  you  would  tell  me  this,  some- 
time, Mr.  King,"  said  Myra  Willard.  "I  knew  it,  I 
think,  before  you,  yourself,  realized ;  and  I,  too,  am 
glad — glad  for  my  girl,  because  I  know  what  such  a 
love  will  mean  to  her.  But  why — why  has  she  gone 
like  this?  Where  has  she  gone?  Oh,  my  girl,  my 
girl !"  For  a  moment,  the  distracted  woman  was  on 
the  point  of  breaking  down;  but  with  an  effort  of 
her  will,  she  controlled  herself. 

"It's  clear  enough  what  has  sent  her  away," 
growled  Conrad  Lagrange,  with  a  warning  glance  to 
the  artist.  "Some  one  has  filled  her  mind  with  the 
notion  that  her  friendship  with  Aaron  has  been 
causing  talk.  I  think  there's  no  doubt  as  to  where 
she's  gone." 

"You  mean  the  mountains  ?"  asked  Myra  Willard, 
quickly. 

"Yes.  I'd  stake  my  life  that  she  has  gone  straight 
to  Brian  Oakley.  Think!  Where  else  would  she 
go?" 

"She  has  sometimes  borrowed  a  saddle-horse  from 
your  neighbor  up  the  road,  hasn't  she,  Miss  Willard  P 
asked  Aaron  King. 

356 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

"Yes.    I'll  run  over  there  at  once." 

Conrad  Lagrange  spoke  quickly;  "Don't  let  them 
think  anything  unusual  has  happened.  We'll  go  over 
to  your  house  and  wait  for  you  there." 

Fifteen  minutes  later,  Myra  Willard  returned. 
Sibyl  had  borrowed  the  horse;  asking  them  if  she 
might  keep  it  until  the  next  day.  She  did  not  say 
where  she  was  going.  She  had  left  about  four  o'clock. 

"That  will  put  her  at  Brian's  by  nine,"  said  the 
novelist. 

"And  I  will  arrive  there  about  the  same  time," 
added  Aaron  King,  eagerly.  "It's  now  five-thirty. 
She  has  an  hour's  start ;  but  I'll  ride  an  hour  harder." 

"WTith  an  automobile  you  could  overtake  her,"  said 
Myra  WTillard. 

"I  know,"  returned  the  artist,  "but  if  I  take  a 
horse,  we  can  ride  back  together." 

He  started  through  the  grove,  toward  the  other 
house,  on  a  run. 


357 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

THE  MYSTERIOUS  DISAPPEARANCE 

Y  the  time  Aaron  King  had  found  a  saddle- 
horse,  and  was  ready  to  start  on  his  ride, 
it  was  six  o'clock. 

Granting  that  Conrad  Lagrange  was 
right  in  his  supposition  that  the  girl  had 
left  with  the  intention  of  going  to  Brian 
Oakley's,  the  artist  could  scarcely,  now,  hope  to  arrive 
at  the  Ranger  Station  until  some  time  after  Sibyl 
had  reached  the  home  of  her  friends — unless  she 
should  stop  somewhere  on  the  way,  which  he  did  not 
think  likely.  Once,  as  he  realized  how  the  minutes 
were  slipping  away,  he  was  on  the  point  of  recon- 
sidering his  reply  to  Myra  Willard's  suggestion  that 
he  take  an  automobile.  Then,  telling  himself  that  he 
would  surely  find  Sibyl  at  the  Station  and  thinking 
of  the  return  trip  with  her,  he  determined  to  carry 
out  his  first  plan. 

But  when  he  was  finally  on  the  road,  he  did  not 
ride  with  less  haste  because  he  no  longer  expected  to 
overtake  Sibyl.  In  spite  of  his  reassuring  himself, 
again  and  again,  that  the  girl  he  loved  was  safe,  his 
mind  was  too  disturbed  by  the  situation  to  permit  of 
his  riding  leisurely.  Beyond  the  outskirts  of  the  city, 
with  his  horse  warmed  to  its  work,  the  artist  pushed 
his  mount  harder  and  harder  until  the  animal  reached 

358 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

the  limit  of  a  pace  that  its  rider  felt  it  could  endure 
for  the  distance  they  had  to  go.  Over  the  way  that  he 
and  Conrad  Lagrange  had  walked  with  Czar  and 
Croesus  so  leisurely,  he  went,  now,  with  such  hot 
haste  that  the  people  in  the  homes  in  the  orange 
groves,  sitting  down  to  their  evening  meal,  paused  to 
listen  to  the  sharp,  ringing  beat  of  the  galloping 
hoofs.  Two  or  three  travelers,  as  he  passed,  watched 
him  out  of  sight,  with  wondering  gaze.  Those  he 
met,  turned  their  heads  to  look  after  him. 

Aaron  King's  thoughts,  as  he  rode,  kept  pace  with 
his  horse's  flying  feet.  The  points  along  the  way, 
where  he  and  the  famous  novelist  had  stopped  to  rest, 
and  to  enjoy  the  beauty  of  the  scene,  recalled  vividly 
to  his  mind  all  that  those  weeks  in  the  mountains  had 
brought  to  him.  Backward  from  that  day  when  he 
had  for  the  first  time  set  his  face  toward  the  hills, 
his  mind  traveled — almost  from  day  to  day — until  he 
stood,  again,  in  that  impoverished  home  of  his  boy- 
hood, to  which  he  had  been  summoned  from  his  studies 
abroad.  As  he  urged  his  laboring  horse  forward,  in 
the  eagerness  and  anxiety  of  his  love  for  Sibyl 
Andres,  he  lived  again  that  hour  when  his  dying 
mother  told  her  faltering  story  of  his  father's  dis- 
honor; when  he  knew,  for  the  first  time,  her  life  of 
devotion  to  him,  and  learned  of  her  sacrifice — even 
unto  poverty — that  he  might,  unhampered,  be  fitted 
for  his  life  work ;  and  when,  receiving  his  inheritance, 
he  had  made  his  solemn  promise  that  the  purpose  and 
passion  of  his  mother's  years  of  sacrifice  should,  in 
him  and  in  his  work,  be  fulfilled.  One  by  one,  he 
retraced  the  steps  that  had  led  to  his  understanding 

359 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

that  only  a  true  and  noble  art  could  ever  make  good 
that  promise.  Not  by  winning  the  poor  notice  of  the 
little  passing  day,  alone ;  not  by  gaining  the  applause 
of  the  thoughtless  crowd ;  not  by  winning  the  rewards 
bestowed  by  the  self-appointed  judges  and  patrons  of 
the  arts ;  but  by  a  true,  honest,  and  fearless  giving  of 
himself  in  his  work,  regardless  alike  of  praise  or 
blame — by  saying  the  thing  that  was  given  him  to 
say,  because  it  was  given  him  to  say — would  he  keep 
that  which  his  mother  had  committed  to  him.  As 
mile  after  mile  of  the  di  •_  ance  that  lay  between  him 
and  the  girl  he  loved  was  put  behind  him  in  his  race 
to  her  side,  it  was  given  him  to  understand — as  never 
before — how,  first  the  friendship  of  the  world-wearied 
man  who  had,  himself,  profaned  his  art;  and  then, 
the  comradeship  of  that  one  whose  life  was  so  un- 
spotted by  the  world;  had  helped  him  to  a  true  and 
vital  conception  of  his  ministry  of  color  and  line  and 
brush  and  canvas. 

It  was  twilight  when  the  artist  reached  the  spot 
where  the  road  crosses  the  tumbling  stream — the  spot 
where  he  and  Conrad  Lagrange  had  slept  at  the  foot 
of  the  mountains.  Where  the  road  curves  toward  the 
creek,  the  man,  without  checking  his  pace,  turned  his 
head  to  look  back  upon  the  valley  that,  far  below,  was 
fast  being  lost  in  the  gathering  dusk.  In  its  weird 
and  gloomy  mystery, — with  its  hidden  life  revealed 
only  by  the  sparkling,  twinkling  lights  of  the  towns 
and  cities, — it  was  suggestive,  now,  to  his  artist  mind, 
of  the  life  that  had  so  nearly  caught  him  in  its  glit- 
tering, sensual  snare.  A  moment  later,  he  lifted  his 
eyes  to  the  mountain  peaks  ahead  that,  still  in  the 

360 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

light  of  the  western  sun,  glowed  as  though  brushed 
with  living  fire.  Against  the  sky,  he  could  distinguish 
that  peak  in  the  Galena  range,  with  the  clump  of 
,  pines,  where  he  had  sat  with  Sibyl  Andres  that  day 
when  she  had  tried  to  make  him  see  the  train  that  had 
brought  him  to  Fairlands. 

He  wondered  now,  as  he  rode,  why  he  had  not 
realized  his  love  for  the  girl,  before  they  left  the 
hills.  It  seemed  to  him,  now,  that  his  love  was  born 
that  evening  when  he  had  first  heard  her  violin,  as  he 
was  fishing ;  when  he  had  watched  her  from  the  cedar 
thicket,  as  she  made  her  music  of  the  mountains  and 
as  she  danced  in  the  grassy  yard.  Why,  he  asked 
himself,  had  he  not  been  conscious  of  his  love  in 
those  days  when  she  came  to  him  in  the  spring  glade, 
and  in  the  days  that  followed?  Why  had  he  not 
known,  when  he  painted  her  portrait  in  the  rose  gar- 
den ?  Why  had  the  awakening  not  come  until  that 
night  when  he  saw  her  in  the  company  of  revelers  at 
the  big  house  on  Fairlands  Heights — the  night  that 
Mr.  Taine  died  ? 

It  was  dark  before  he  reached  the  canyon  gates. 
In  the  blackness  of  the  gorge,  with  only  the  light  of  a 
narrow  strip  of  stars  overhead,  he  was  forced  to  ride 
more  slowly.  But  his  confidence  that  he  would  find 
her  at  the  Ranger  Station  had  increased  as  he  ap- 
proached the  scenes  of  her  girlhood  home.  To  go  to 
her  friends,  seemed  so  inevitably  the  thing  that  she 
would  do.  A  few  miles  farther,  now,  and  he  would 
see  her.  He  would  tell  her  why  he  had  come.  He 
would  claim  the  love  that  he  knew  was  his.  And  so, 
with  a  better  heart,  he  permitted  his  tired  horse  to- 

361 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

slacken  the  pace.  He  even  smiled  to  think  of  her 
surprise  when  she  should  see  him. 

It  was  a  little  past  nine  o'clock  when  the  artist  saw, 
through  the  trees,  the  lights  in  the  windows  at  the 
Station,  and  dismounted  to  open  the  gate.  Riding  up 
to  the  house,  he  gave  the  old  familiar  hail, 
"Whoo-e-e."  The  door  opened,  and  with  the  flood  of 
light  that  streamed  out  came  the  tall  form  of  Brian 
Oakley. 

"Hello !    Seems  to  me  I  ought  to  know  that  voice." 

The  artist  laughed  nervously.  "It's  me,  all  right, 
Brian — what  there  is  left  of  me." 

"Aaron  King,  by  all  that's  holy !"  cried  the  Ranger, 
coming  quickly  down  the  steps  and  toward  the  shad- 
owy horseman.  "What's  the  matter?  Anything 
wrong  with  Sibyl  or  Myra  Willard  ?  What  brings 
you  up  here,  this  time  of  night  ?" 

Aaron  King  heard  the  questions  with  sinking  heart. 
But  so  certain  had  he  come  to  feel  that  the  girl  would 
be  at  the  Station,  that  he  said  mechanically,  as  he 
dropped  wearily  from  his  horse  to  grasp  his  friend's 
hand,  "I  followed  Sibyl.  How  long  has  she  been 
here?" 

Brian  Oakley  spoke  quickly;  "Sibyl  is  not  here, 
Aaron." 

The  artist  caught  the  Ranger's  arm.  "Do  you 
mean,  Brian,  that  she  has  not  been  here  to-day  ?" 

"She  has  not  been  here,"  returned  the  officer,  coolly. 

"Good  God !"  exclaimed  the  other,  stunned  and 
bewildered  by  the  positive  words.  Blindly,  he  turned 
toward  his  horse. 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

Brian  Oakley,  stepping  forward,  put  his  hand  on 
the  artist's  shoulder.  "Come,  old  man,  pull  yourself 
together  and  let  a  little  light  in.  on  this  matter,"  he 
said  calmly.  "Tell  me  what  has  happened.  Why 
did  you  expect  to  find  Sibyl  here  ?" 

When  Aaron  King  had  finished  his  story,  the  other 
said,  still  without  excitement,  "Come  into  the  house. 
You're  about  all  in.  I  heard  Doctor  Gordan's  'auto' 
going  up  the  canyon  to  Morton's  about  an  hour  ago. 
Their  baby's  sick.  If  Sibyl  was  on  the  road,  he  would 
have  passed  her.  I'll  throw  the  saddle  on  Max,  and 
we'll  run  over  there  and  see  what  he  knows.  But 
first,  you've  got  to  have  a  bite  to  eat." 

The  young  man  protested  but  the  Ranger  said 
firmly,  "You  can  eat  while  I  saddle;  come.  I  wish 
Mary  was  home,"  he  added,  as  he  set  out  some  cold 
meat  and  bread.  "She  is  in  Los  Angeles  with  her 
sister.  I'll  call  you  when  I'm  ready."  He  spoke  the 
last  word  from  the  door  as  he  went  out. 

The  artist  tried  to  eat ;  but  with  little  success.  He 
was  again  mounted  and  ready  to  go  when  the  Ranger 
rode  up  from  the  barn  "on  the  chestnut. 

When  they  reached  the  point  where  the  road  to 
Morton's  ranch  leaves  the  main  canyon  road,  Brian 
Oakley  said,  "It's  barely  possible  that  she  went  on  up 
to  Carleton's.  But  I  think  we  better  go  to  Morton's 
and  see  the  Doctor  first.  We  don't  want  to  miss  him. 
Did  you  meet  any  one  as  you  came  up  ?  I  mean  after 
you  got  within  two  or  three  miles  of  the  mouth  of  the 
canyon  ?" 

"No,"  replied  the  other.    "Why  ?" 

363 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

"A  man  on  a  horse  passed  the  Station  about  seven 
o'clock,  going  down.  Where  did  the  Doctor  pass 
you?" 

"He  didn't  pass  me." 

"What  ?"  said  the  Ranger,  sharply. 

"No  one  passed  me  after  I  left  Fairlands." 

"Hu-m-m.  If  Doc  left  town  before  you,  he  must 
have  had  a  puncture  or  something,  or  he  would  have 
passed  the  Station  before  he  did." 

It  was  ten  o'clock  when  the  two  men  arrived  at  the 
Morton  ranch. 

"We  don't  want  to  start  any  excitement,"  said  the 
officer,  as  they  drew  rein  at  the  corral  gate.  "You 
stay  here  and  I'll  drop  in — casual  like." 

It  seemed  to  Aaron  King,  waiting  in  the  darkness, 
that  his  companion  was  gone  for  hours.  In  reality, 
it  was  only  a  few  minutes  until  the  Ranger  returned. 
He  was  walking  quickly,  and,  springing  into  the  sad- 
dle, he  started  the  chestnut  off  at  a  sharp  lope. 

"The  baby  is  better,"  he  said.  "Doctor  was  here 
this  afternoon — started  home  about  two  o'clock.  That 
'auto'  must  have  gone  on  up  the  canyon.  Morton 
knew  nothing  of  the  man  on  horseback  who  went 
down.  We'll  cut  across  to  Carleton's." 

Presently,  the  Ranger  swung  the  chestnut  aside 
from  the  wagon  road,  to  follow  a  narrow  trail  through 
the  chaparral.  To  the  artist,  the  little  path  in  the 
darkness  was  invisible,  but  he  gave  his  horse  the  rein 
and  followed  the  shadowy  form  ahead.  Three-quar- 
ters of  an  hour  later,  they  came  out  into  the  main 
road,  again;  near  the  Carleton  ranch  corral,  a  mile 

864 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOULD 

and  a  half  below  the  old  camp  in  the  sycamores  behind 
the  orchard  of  the  deserted  place. 

It  was  now  eleven  o'clock  and  the  ranch-house  was 
dark.  Without  dismounting,  Brian  Oakley  called, 
"Hello,  Henry!"  There  was  no  answer.  Moving 
his  horse  close  to  the  window  of  the  room  where  he 
knew  the  rancher  slept,  the  Ranger  tapped  on  the 
sash.  "Henry,  turn  out;  I  want  to  see  you;  it's 
Oakley." 

A  moment  later  the  sash  was  raised  and  Carleton 
asked,  "What  is  it^  Brian  ?  What's  up  ?" 

"Is  Sibyl  stopping  with  you  folks,  to-night  ?" 

"Sibyl!  Haven't  seen  her  since  they  went  down 
from  their  summer  camp.  What's  the  matter  ?" 

Briefly,  the  Ranger  explained  the  situation.  The 
rancher  interrupted  only  to  greet  the  artist  with  a 
"howdy,  Mr.  King,"  as  the  officer's  words  made 
known  the  identity  of  his  companion. 

When  Brian  Oakley  had  concluded,  the  rancher 
said,  "I  heard  that  'auto'  going  up,  and  then  heard 
it  going  back  down,  again,  about  an  hour  ago.  You 
missed  it  by  turning  off  to  Morton's.  If  you'd  come 
on  straight  up  here  you'd  a  met  it." 

"Did  you  see  the  man  on  horseback,  going  down, 
just  before  dusk  ?"  asked  the  officer. 

"Yes,  but  not  near  enough  to  know  him.  You 
don't  suppose  Sibyl  would  go  up  to  her  old  home  do 
you,  Brian?" 

"She  might,  under  the  circumstances.  Aaron  and 
I  will  ride  up  there,  on  the  chance." 

"You'll  stop  in  on  your  way  back  ?"  called  the 
rancher,  as  the  two  horsemen  moved  away. 

365 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

"Sure,"  answered  the  Ranger. 

An  hour  later,  they  were  back.  They  had  found 
the  old  home  under  the  giant  sycamores,  on  the  edge 
of  the  little  clearing,  dark  and  untenanted. 

Lights  were  shining,  now,  from  the  windows  of  the 
Carleton  ranch-house.  Down  at  the  corral,  the  twink- 
ling gleam  of  a  lantern  bobbed  here  and  there.  As 
the  Ranger  and  his  companion  drew  near,  the  lantern 
came  rapidly  up  the  hill.  At  the  porch,  they  were 
met  by  Henry  Carleton,  his  two  sons,  and  a  ranch 
hand.  As  the  four  stood  in  the  light  of  the  window, 
and  of  the  lantern  on  the  porch,  listening  to  Brian 
Oakley's  report,  each  held  the  bridle-reins  of  a  saddle- 
horse. 

"I  figured  that  the  chance  of  her  being  up  there 
was  so  mighty  slim  that  we'd  better  be  ready  to  ride 
when  you  got  back,"  said  the  mountain  ranchman. 
"What's  your  program,  Brian  ?"  Thus  simply  he  put 
himself  and  his  household  in  command  of  the  Ranger. 

The  officer  turned  to  the  eldest  son,  "Jack,  you've 
got  the  fastest  horse  in  the  outfit.  I  want  you  to  go 
down  to  the  Power-House  and  find  out  if  any  one 
there  saw  Sibyl  anywhere  on  the  road.  You  see,"  he 
explained  to  the  group,  "we  don't  know  for  sure,  yet, 
that  she  came  into  the  mountains.  While  I  haven't 
a  doubt  but  she  did,  we've  got  to  know." 

Jack  Carleton  was  in  the  saddle  as  the  Ranger  fin- 
ished. The  officer  turned  to  him  again.  "Find  out 
what  you  can  about  that  automobile  and  the  man  on 
horseback.  We'll  be  at  the  Station  when  you  get 
back."  There  was  a  sharp  clatter  of  iron-shod  hoofs, 


366 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

and  the  rider  disappeared  in  the  darkness  of  the 
night. 

The  other  members  of  the  little  party  rode  more 
leisurely  down  the  canyon  road  to  the  Ranger  Station. 
When  they  arrived  at  the  house,  Brian  Oakley  saidr 
"Make  yourselves  easy,  boys.  I'm  going  to  write  a 
little  note."  He  went  into  the  house  where,  as  they 
sat  on  the  porch,  they  saw  him  through  the  window, 
at  his  desk. 

The  Ranger  had  finished  his  letter  and  with  the 
sealed  official  envelope  in  his  hand,  appeared  in  the 
doorway  when  his  messenger  to  the  Power-House 
returned.  Without  dismounting,  the  rider  reined  his 
horse  up  to  the  porch.  "Good  time,  Jack,"  said  the- 
officer,  quietly. 

The  young  man  answered,  "One  of  the  company 
men  saw  Sibyl.  He  was  coming  up  with  a  load  of 
supplies  and  she  passed  him  a  mile  below  the  Power- 
House,  just  before  dark.  When  he  was  opening  the 
gate,  the  automobile  went  by.  It  was  too  dark  to  see 
how  many  were  in  the  machine.  They  heard  the 
'auto'  go  down  the  canyon,  again,  later.  No  one 
noticed  the  man  on  horseback.  Three  Company  men 
will  be  up  here  at  daybreak." 

"Good  boy,"  said  Brian  Oakley,  again.  And  then, 
for  a  little,  no  sound  save  the  soft  clinking  of  bit  or 
bridle-chain  in  the  darkness  broke  the  hush  that  fell 
over  the  little  group.  With  faces  turned  toward  their 
leader,  they  waited  his  word.  The  Ranger  stood  still, 
the  long  official  envelope  in  his  hand.  When  he  spoke, 
there  was  a  ring  in  his  voice  that  left  in  the  mind* 


367 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

of  his  companions  no  doubt  as  to  his  view  of  the 
seriousness  of  the  situation.  "Milt,"  he  said  sharply. 

The  youngest  of  the  Carleton  sons  stepped  forward. 
"Yes,  sir." 

"You  will  ride  to  Eairlands.  It's  half  past  one, 
now.  You  should  be  back  between  eight  and  nine  in 
the  morning.  Give  this  letter  to  the  Sheriff  and  bring 
*ne  his  answer.  Stop  at  Miss  Willard's  and  tell  her 
ffhat  you  know.  You'll  get  something  to  eat  there, 
while  you're  talking.  If  I'm  not  at  your  house  when 
jou  get  back,  feed  your  horse  and  wait." 

"Yes,  sir,"  came  the  answer,  and  an  instant  later 
the  boy  rider  vanished  into  the  night. 

While  the  sound  of  the  messenger's  going  still  came 
to  them,  the  Ranger  spoke  again.  "Henry,  you'll  ride 
to  Morton's.  Tell  him  to  be  at  your  place,  with  his 
crowd,  by  daylight.  Then  go  home  and  be  ready 
with  breakfast  for  the  riders  when  they  come  in. 
We'll  have  to  make  your  place  the  center.  It'll  be 
hard  on  your  wife  and  the  girls,  but  Mrs.  Morton  will 
likely  go  over  to  lend  them  a  hand.  I  wish  to  God 
Mary  was  here." 

"Never  mind  about  my  folks,  Brian,"  returned  the 
rancher  as  he  mounted.  "You  know  they'll  be  on  the 
job." 

"You  bet  I  know,  Henry,"  came  the  answer  as  the 
mountaineer  rode  away.  Then — "Bill,  you'll  take 
every  one  between  here  and  the  head  of  the  canyon. 
If  there's  a  man  shows  up  at  Carleton's  later  than  an 
hour  after  sunup,  we'll  run  him  out  of  the  country. 
Tom,  you  take  the  trail  over  into  the  Santa  Ana, 
circle  around  to  the  mouth  of  the  canyon,  and  back 

368 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

up  Clear  Creek.  Turn  out  everybody.  Jack,  you'll 
take  the  Galena  Valley  neighborhood.  Send  in  your 
men  but  don't  come  back  yourself  until  you've  found 
that  man  who  went  down  the  canyon  on  horseback." 

When  the  last  rider  was  gone  in  the  darkness,  the 
Ranger  said  to  the  artist,  "Come,  Aaron,  you  must 
get  some  rest.  There's  not  a  thing  more  that  can  be 
done,  until  daylight." 

Aaron  King  protested.  But,  strong  as  he  was,  the 
unusual  exertion  of  his  hours  in  the  saddle,  together 
with  his  racking  anxiety,  had  told  upon  muscles  and 
nerves.  His  face,  pale  and  drawn,  gave  the  lie  to  his 
words  that  he  was  not  tired. 

"You  must  rest,  man,"  said  Brian  Oakley,  shortly. 
"There  may  be  days  of  this  ahead  of  us.  You've  got 
to  snatch  every  minute,  when  it's  possible,  to  conserve 
your  strength.  .  You've  already  had  more  than  the 
rest  of  us.  Jerk  off  your  boots  and  lie  down  until  I 
call  you,  even  if  you  can't  sleep.  Do  as  I  say — I'm 
boss  here." 

As  the  artist  obeyed,  the  Ranger  continued,  "I 
wrote  the  Sheriff  all  I  knew — and  some  things  that  I 
suspect.  It's  that  automobile  that  sticks  in  my  mind 
— that  and  some  other  things.  The  machine  must 
have  left  Fairlands  before  you  did,  unless  it  came 
over  through  the  Galena  Valley,  from  some  town  on 
the  railroad,  up  San  Gorgonio  Pass  way — which  isn't 
likely.  If  it  did  come  from  Fairlands,  it  must  have 
waited  somewhere  along  the  road,  to  enter  the  canyon 
after  dark.  Do  you  think  that  any  one  else  besides 
Myra  Willard  and  Lagrange  and  you  know  that  Sibyl 
started  up  here?" 

369 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

"I  don't  think  so.  The  neighbor  where  she  bor- 
rowed the  horse  didn't  know  where  she  was  going." 

"Who  saw  her  last  ?" 

"I  think  Mrs.  Taine  did." 

The  artist  had  already  told  the  Ranger  about  the 
possible  meeting  of  Mrs.  Taine  and  Sibyl  in  his 
studio. 

"Hu-m-m,"  said  the  other. 

"Mrs.  Taine  left  for  the  East  at  four  o'clock,  you 
know,"  said  the  artist. 

"Jim  Rutlidge  didn't  go,  you  said."  The  Rangei 
spoke  casually.  Then,  as  if  dismissing  the  matter, 
he  continued,  "You  get  some  rest  now,  Aaron.  I'll 
take  care  of  your  horse  and  saddle  a  fresh  one  for  you. 
As  soon  as  it's  light,  we'll  ride.  I'm  going  to  find  out 
where  that  automobile  went — and  what  for." 


370 


CHAPTEK  XXXIII 
BEGINNING  THE  SEARCH 

AEON  KING  lay  with  closed  eyes,  but  not 
asleep.  He  was  thinking,  thinking,  think- 
ing. In  a  weary  circle,  his  tired  brain 
went  round  and  round,  finding  no  place  to 
stop.  The  man  on  horseback,  the  auto- 
mobile, some  accident  that  might  have 
befallen  the  girl  in  her  distraught  state  of  mind — he 
could  find  no  place  in  the  weary  treadmill  of  con- 
jecture to  rest.  While  it  was  still  too  dark  to  see, 
Brian  Oakley  called  him.  And  the  call  was  a  relief. 
As  the  artist  pulled  on  his  boots,  the  Ranger  said, 
"It'll  be  light  enough  to  see,  by  the  time  we  get  above 
Carleton's.  We  know  the  automobile  went  that  far 
anyway." 

At  the  Carleton  ranch,  as  they  passed,  they  saw, 
by  the  lights,  that  the  mountaineer's  family  were 
already  making  ready  for  the  gathering  of  the  riders. 
A  little  beyond,  they  met  two  men  from  the  Company 
Head- Work,  on  their  way  to  the  meeting  place.  Soon, 
in  the  gray,  early  morning  light,  the  tracks  of  the 
automobile  were  clearly  seen.  Eagerly,  they  followed 
to  the  foot  of  the  Oak  Knoll  trail,  where  the  machine 
had  stopped  and,  turning  around,  had  started  back 
down  the  canyon.  With  experienced  care,  Brian  Oak- 
ley searched  every  inch  of  the  ground  in  the  vicinity. 

371 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

Shaking  his  head,  at  last,  as  though  forced  to  give 
up  hope  of  finding  any  positive  signs  pointing  to  the 
solution  of  the  puzzle,  the  officer  remounted,  slowly. 
"I  can't  make  it  out,"  he  said.  "The  road  is  so  dry 
and  cut  up  with  tracks,  and  the  trail  is  so  gravelly, 
that  there  are  no  clear  signs  at  all.  Come,  we  better 
get  back  to  Carleton's,  and  start  the  boys  out.  When 
Milt  returns  from  Fairiands  he  may  know  some- 
thing." 

With  the  rising  of  the  sun,  the  mountain  folk,  sum- 
moned in  the  night  by  the  Banger's  messengers, 
assembled  at  the  ranch;  every  man  armed  and 
mounted  with  the  best  his  possessions  afforded.  Tied 
to  the  trees  in  the  yard,  and  along  the  fence  in  front, 
or  standing  with  bridle-reins  over  their  heads,  the 
horses  waited.  Lying  on  the  porch,  or  squatting  on 
their  heels,  in  unconscious  picturesque  attitudes,  the 
mountain  riders  who  had  arrived  first  and  had 
finished  their  breakfast  were  ready  for  the  Ranger's 
word.  In  the  ranch  kitchen,  the  table  was  filled  with 
the  later  ones ;  and  these,  as  fast  as  they  finished  their 
meal,  made  way  for  the  new  arrivals.  There  was  no 
loud  talk ;  no  boisterous  laughter ;  no  uneasy  restless- 
ness. Calm-eyed,  soft-voiced,  deliberate  in  movement, 
these  hardy  mountaineers  had  answered  Brian  Oak- 
ley's call ;  and  they  placed  themselves,  now,  under  his 
command,  with  no  idle  comment,  no  wasteful  excite- 
ment; but  with  a  purpose  and  spirit  that  would,  if 
need  be,  hold  them  in  their  saddles  until  their  horses 
dropped  under  them,  and  would,  then,  send  them  on, 
afoot,  as  long  as  their  iron  nerves  and  muscles  could 
be  made  to  respond  to  their  wills. 

372 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

There  was  scarce  a  man  in  that  company,  who  did 
not  know  and  love  Sibyl  Andres,  and  who  had  not 
known  and  loved  her  parents.  Many  of  them  had 
ridden  with  the  Ranger  at  the  time  of  Will  Andres' 
death.  When  the  officer  and  his  companion  appeared, 
they  gathered  round  their  leader  with  simple  words 
of  greeting,  and  stood  silently  ready  for  his  word. 

Briefly,  Brian  Oakley  divided  them  into  parties, 
and  assigned  the  territory  to  be  covered  by  each. 
Three  shots  in  quick  succession,  at  intervals  of  two 
minutes,  would  signal  that  the  search  was  finished. 
Two  men,  he  held  to  go  with  him  up  Oak  Knoll  trail, 
after  his  messenger  to  the  Sheriff  had  returned.  At 
sunset,  they  were  all  to  reassemble  at  the  ranch  for 
further  orders.  When  the  officer  finished  speaking, 
the  little  group  of  men  turned  to  the  horses,  and, 
without  the  loss  of  a  moment,  were  out  of  sight  in 
the  mountain  wilderness. 

A  half  hour  before  he  was  due,  young  Carleton 
appeared  with  the  Sheriff's  answer  to  the  Ranger's 
letter.  "Well  done,  boy,"  said  Brian  Oakley,  heartily. 
"Take  care  of  your  horse,  now,  and  then  get  some  rest 
yourself,  and  be  ready  for  whatever  comes  next." 

He  turned  to  those  he  had  held  to  go  with  him; 
"All  right,  boys,  let's  ride.  Sheriff  will  take  care  of 
the  Fairlands  end.  Come,  Aaron." 

All  the  way  up  the  Oak  Knoll  trail  the  Ranger 
rode  in  the  lead,  bending  low  from  his  saddle,  his 
gaze  fixed  on  the  little  path.  Twice  he  dismounted 
and  walked  ahead,  leaving  the  chestnut  to  follow  or 
to  wait,  at  his  word.  When  they  came  out  on  the 
pipe-line  trail,  he  halted  the  party,  and,  on  foot,  went 

373 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

carefully  over  the  ground  either  way  from  the  point 
where  they  stood. 

"Boys,"  he  said  at  last,  "I  have  a  hunch  that  there 
was  a  horse  on  this  trail  last  night.  It's  been  so 
blamed  dry,  and  for  so  long,  though,  that  I  can't  be 
sure.  I  held  you  two  men  because  I  know  you  are 
good  trailers.  Follow  the  pipe-line  up  the  canyon, 
and  see  what  you  can  find.  It  isn't  necessary  to  say 
stay  with  it  if  you  strike  anything  that  even  looks 
like  it  might  be  a  lead.  Aaron  and  I  will  take  the 
other  way,  and  up  the  Galena  trail  to  the  fire-break." 

While  Brian  Oakley  had  been  searching  for  signs 
in  the  little  path,  and  the  artist,  with  the  others,  was 
waiting,  Aaron  King's  mind  went  back  to  that  day 
when  he  and  Conrad  Lagrange  had  sat  there  under 
the  oaks  and,  in  a  spirit  of  irresponsible  fun,  had 
committed  themselves  to  the  leadership  of  Croesus. 
To  the  young  man,  now,  that  day,  with  its  care-free 
leisure,  seemed  long  ago.  Remembering  the  novelist's 
fanciful  oration  to  the  burro,  he  thought  grimly  how 
unconscious  they  had  been,  in  their  merriment,  of  the 
great  issues  that  did  actually  rest  upon  the  seemingly 
trivial  incident.  He  recalled,  too,  with  startling 
vividness,  the  times  that  he  had  climbed  to  that  spot 
with  Sibyl,  or,  reaching  it  from  either  way  on  the 
pipe-line,  had  gone  with  her  down  the  zigzag  path  to 
the  road  in  the  canyon  below.  Had  she,  last  night, 
alone,  or  with  some  unwelcome  companions,  paused  a 
moment  under  those  oaks  ?  Had  she  remembered  the 
hours  that  she  had  spent  there  with  him  ? 

As  he  followed  the  Ranger  over  the  ground  that 
he  had  walked  with  her,  that  day  of  their  last  climb 

374 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

together,  it  seemed  to  him  that  every  step  of  the  way 
was  haunted  by  her  sweet  personality.  The  objects 
along  the  trail — a  point  of  rock,  a  pine,  the  barrel 
where  they  had  filled  their  canteen,  a  broken  section 
of  the  concrete  pipe  left  by  the  workmen,  the  very 
rocks  and  cliffs,  the  flowers — dry  and  withered  now — 
that  grew  along  the  little  path — a  thousand  things 
that  met  his  eyes — recalled  her  to  his  mind  until  he 
felt  her  presence  so  vividly  that  he  almost  expected 
to  find  her  waiting,  with  smiling,  winsome  face,  just 
around  the  next  turn.  The  officer,  who,  moving  ahead, 
scanned  with  careful  eyes  every  foot  of  the  way, 
seemed  to  the  artist,  now,  to  be  playing  some  fantastic 
game.  He  could  not,  for  the  moment,  believe  that 
the  girl  he  loved  was — God !  where  was  she  ?  Why 
did  Brian  Oakley  move  so  slowly,  on  foot,  while  his 
horse,  leisurely  cropping  the  grass,  followed?  He 
should  be  in  the  saddle !  They  should  be  riding,  rid- 
ing, riding — as  he  had  ridden  last  night.  Last  night ! 
Was  it  only  last  night  ? 

Where  the  Government  trail  crosses  the  fire-break 
on  the  crest  of  the  Galenas,  Brian  Oakley  paused.  "I 
don't  think  there's  been  anything  over  this  way,"  he 
said.  "We'll  follow  the  fire-break  to  that  point  up 
there,  for  a  look  around." 

At  noon,  they  stood  by  the  big  rock,  under  the 
clump  of  pines,  where  Aaron  King  and  Sibyl  Andres 
had  eaten  their  lunch. 

"We'll  be  here  some  time,"  said  the  Ranger. 
"Make  yourself  comfortable.  I  want  to  see  if  there's 
anything  stirring  down  yonder." 

With  his  back  to  the  rock,  he  searched  the  Galena 

375 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

Valley  side  of  the  range,  through  his  powerful  glass ; 
commenting,  now  and  then,  when  some  object  came 
in  the  field  of  his  vision,  to  his  companion  who  sat 
beside  him. 

They  had  risen  to  go  and  the  officer  was  returning 
his  glass  to  its  case  on  his  saddle,  when  Aaron  King 
— pointing  toward  Fairlands,  lying  dim  and  hazy  in 
the  distant  valley — said,  ''Look  there!" 

The  other  turned  his  head  to  see  a  flash  of  light 
that  winked  through  the  dull,  smoky  veil,  with  start- 
ling clearness.  He  smiled  and  turned  again  to  his 
saddle.  "You'll  often  see  that,"  he  said.  "It's  the 
sun  striking  some  bright  object  that  happens  to  be  at 
just  the  right  angle  to  hit  you  with  the  reflection.  A 
bit  of  new  tin  on  a  roof,  a  window,  an  automobile 
shield,  anything  bright  enough,  will  do  the  trick. 
Come,  we'll  go  back  to  the  trail  and  follow  the  break 
the  other  way." 

In  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  at  the  close  of  the  long, 
hard  day,  as  Brian  Oakley  and  Aaron  King  were 
starting  down  the  Oak  Knoll  trail  on  their  return  to 
the  ranch,  the  Ranger  uttered  an  exclamation.  His 
quick  eyes  had  caught  the  twinkling  gleam  of  a  light 
at  Sibyl's  old  home,  far  below,  across  the  canyon. 
The  next  instant,  the  chestnut,  followed  by  his  four- 
footed  companion,  was  going  down  the  steep  trail  at 
a  pace  that  sent  the  gravel  flying  and  forced  the 
artist,  unaccustomed  to  such  riding,  to  cling  desper- 
ately to  the  saddle.  Up  the  canyon  road,  the  Ranger 
sent  the  chestnut  at  a  run,  nor  did  he  draw  rein  as 
they  crossed  the  rough  boulder-strewn  wash.  Plung- 


376 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

ing  through  the  tumbling  water  of  the  creek,  the 
horses  scrambled  up  the  farther  bank,  and  dashed 
along  the  old,  weed-grown  road,  into  the  little  clear- 
ing. They  were  met  by  Czar  with  a  bark  of  welcome. 
A  moment  later,  they  were  greeted  by  Conrad 
Lagrange  and  Myra  Willard. 

"But  why  don't  you  stay  down  at  the  ranch, 
Myra?"  asked  the  Ranger,  when  he  had  told  them 
that  his  day's  work  was  without  results. 

"Listen,  Mr.  Oakley,"  returned  the  woman  with 
the  disfigured  face.  "I  know  Sibyl  too  well  not  to 
understand  the  possibilities  of  her  temperament. 
Natures,  fine  and  sensitive  as  hers,  though  brave  and 
cool  and  strong  under  ordinary  circumstances,  under 
peculiar  mental  stress  such  as  I  believe  caused  her  to 
leave  us,  are  easily  thrown  out  of  balance.  We  know 
nothing.  The  ehild  may  be  wandering,  alone — dazed 
and  helpless  under  the  shock  of  a  cruel  and  malicious 
attempt  to  wreck  her  happiness.  Only  some  terrible 
stress  of  emotion  could  have  caused  her  to  leave  me 
as  she  did.  If  she  is  alone,  out  here  in  the  hills, 
there  is  a  chance  that — even  in  her  distracted  state 
of  mind — she  will  find  her  way  to  her  old  home." 
The  woman  paused,  and  then,  in  the  silence,  added 
hesitatingly,  "I — I  may  say  that  I  know  from  experi- 
ence the  possibilities  of  which  I  speak." 

The  three  men  bowed  their  heads.  Brian  Oakley 
said  softly,  "Myra,  you've  got  more  heart  and  more 
sense  than  all  of  us  put  together."  To  Conrad 
Lagrange,  he  added,  "You  will  stay  here  with  Miss 
Willard?" 


377 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

"Yes,"  answered  the  novelist,  "I  would  be  little 
good  in  the  hills,  at  such  work  as  you  are  doing, 
Brian.  I  will  do  what  I  can,  here." 

When  the  Ranger  and  the  artist  were  riding  down 
the  canyon  to  the  ranch,  the  officer  said,  "There's  a 
big  chance  that  Myra  is  right,  Aaron.  After  all,  she 
knows  Sibyl  better  than  any  of  us,  and  I  can  see  that 
she's  got  a  fairly  clear  idea  of  what  sent  the  child 
off  like  this.  As  it  stands  now,  the  girl  may  be  just 
wandering  around.  If  she  is,  the  boys  will  pick  her 
up  before  many  hours.  She  may  have  met  with  some 
accident.  If  that's  it,  we'll  know  before  long.  She 
may  have  been — I  tell  you,  Aaron,  it's  that  auto- 
mobile acting  the  way  it  did  that  I  can't  get  around." 

The  searchers  were  all  at  the  ranch  when  the  two 
men  arrived.  ~No  one  had  a  word  of  encouragement 
to  report.  A  messenger  from  the  Sheriff  brought  no 
light  on  the  mystery  of  the  automobile.  The  two 
men  who  had  followed  the  pipe-line  trail  had  found 
nothing.  A  few  times,  they  thought  they  had  signs 
that  a  horse  had  been  over  the  trail  the  night  before, 
but  there  was  no  certainty;  and  after  the  pipe-line 
reached  the  floor  of  the  canyon  there  was  absolutely 
nothing.  Jack  Carleton  was  back  from  the  Galena 
Valley  neighborhood,  and,  with  him,  was  the  horse- 
man who  had  gone  down  the  canyon  the  evening 
before.  The  man  was  known  to  all.  He  had  been 
hunting,  and  was  on  his  way  home  when  Henry 
Carleton  and  the  Ranger  had  seen  him.  He  had  come, 
now,  to  help  in  the  search. 

Picking  a  half  dozen  men  from  the  party,  Brian 
Oakley  sent  them  to  spend  the  night  riding  the  higher 

378 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

trails  and  fire-breaks,  watching  for  camp-fire  lights. 
The  others,  he  ordered  to  rest,  in  readiness  to  take  up 
the  search  at  daylight,  should  the  night  riders  come 
in  without  results. 

Aaron  King,  exhausted,  physically  and  mentally, 
sank  into  a  stupor  that  could  scarcely  be  called  sleep. 

At  daybreak,  the  riders  who  had  been  all  night  on 
the  higher  trails  and  fire-breaks,  searching  the  dark- 
ness for  the  possible  gleam  of  a  camp-fire's  light, 
came  in. 

All  that  day — Wednesday — the  mountain  horse- 
men rode,  widening  the  area  of  their  search  under 
the  direction  of  the  Ranger.  From  sundown  until 
long  after  dark,  they  came  straggling  wearily  back; 
their  horses  nearly  exhausted,  the  riders  beginning 
to  fear  that  Sibyl  would  never  be  found  alive.  There 
was  no  further  word  from  the  Sheriff  at  Fairlands. 

Then  suddenly,  out  of  the  blackness  of  the  night, 
a  rider  from  the  other  side  of  the  Galenas  arrived  with 
the  word  that  the  girl's  horse  had  been  found.  The 
animal  was  grazing  in  the  neighborhood  of  Pine  Glen. 
The  saddle  and  the  horse's  sides  were  stained  with 
dirt,  as  if  the  animal  had  fallen.  The  bridle-reins 
had  been  broken.  The  horse  might  have  rolled  on  the 
saddle;  he  might  have  stepped  on  the  bridle-reins; 
he  might  have  fallen  and  left  his  rider  lying  senseless. 
In  any  case,  they  reasoned,  the  animal  would  scarcely 
have  found  his  way  over  the  Galena  range  after  he 
had  been  left  to  wander  at  will. 

Brian  Oakley  decided  to  send  the  main  company 
of  riders  over  into  the  Pine  Glen  country,  to  continue 
the  search  there.  He  knew  that  the  men  who  found 

379 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

the  horse  would  follow  the  animal's  track  back  as  far 
as  possible.  He  knew,  also,  that  if  the  animal  had 
been  wandering  several  hours,  as  was  likely,  it  would 
be  impossible  to  back-track  far.  Late  as  it  was,  Aaron 
King  rode  up  the  canyon  to  tell  Myra  Willard  and 
Conrad  Lagrange  the  result  of  the  day's  work. 

The  artist's  voice  trembled  as  he  told  the  general 
opinion  of  the  mountaineers ;  but  Myra  Willard  said, 
"Mr.  King,  they  are  wrong.  My  baby  will  come 
back.  There's  harm  come  to  her  no  doubt;  but  she 
is  not  dead  or — I  would  know  it." 

In  spite  of  the  fact  that  Aaron  King's  reason  told 
him  the  woman  of  the  disfigured  face  had  no  ground 
for  her  belief,  he  was  somehow  helped,  by  her  words, 
to  hope. 


380 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 
THE  TRACKS  ON  GRANITE  PEAK 

HE  searching  party  was  already  on  the  way 
over  to  Pine  Glen,  when  Brian  Oakley 
stopped  at  Sibyl's  old  home  for  Aaron 
King.  The  Ranger,  himself,  had  waited 
to  receive  the  morning  message  from  the 
Sheriff. 

When  the  two  men,  following  the  Government  trail 
that  leads  to  the  neighborhood  where  the  girl's  horse 
had  been  found,  reached  the  fire-break  on  the  summit 
of  the  Galenas,  the  officer  said,  "Aaron,  you'll  be  of 
little  use  over  there  in  that  Pine  Glen  country,  where 
you  have  never  been/'  He  had  pulled  up  his  horse 
and  was  looking  at  his  companion,  steadily. 

"Is  there  nothing  that  I  can  do,  Brian  ?"  returned 
the  young  man,  hopelessly.  "God,  man !  I  must  do 
something !  I  must,  I  tell  you !" 

"Steady,  old  boy,  steady,"  returned  the  moun- 
taineer's calm  voice.  "The  first  thing  you  must  do, 
you  know,  is  to  keep  a  firm  grip  on  yourself.  If  you 
lose  your  nerve  I'll  have  you  on  my  hands  too." 

Under  his  companion's  eye,  the  artist  controlled 
himself.  "You're  right,  Brian,"  he  said  calmly. 
"What  do  yon  want  me  to  do  ?  You  know  best,  of 
coursa" 

The  officer,   atill   watching  him,   said  slowly,   "I 

381 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

want  you  to  spend  the  day  on  that  point,  up  there," 
— he  pointed  to  the  clump  of  pines, — "with  this 
glass."  He  turned  to  take  an  extra  field-glass  from 
his  saddle.  Handing  the  glass  to  the  other,  he  con- 
tinued, "You  can  see  all  over  the  country,  on  the 
Galena  Valley  side  of  this  range,  from  there."  Again 
he  paused,  as  though  reluctant  to  give  the  final  word 
of  his  instructions. 

The  young  man  looked  at  him,  questioningly. 
"Yes?" 

The  Ranger  answered  in  a  low  tone,  "You  are  to 
watch  for  buzzards,  Aaron." 

Aaron  King  went  white.     "Brian !    You  think — " 

The  answer  came  sharply,  "I  am  not  thinking.  I 
don't  dare  think.  I  am  only  recognizing  every  possi- 
bility, and  letting  nothing,  nothing,  get  away  from 
me.  I  don't  want  you  to  think.  I  want  you  to  do  the 
thing  that  will  be  of  greatest  service.  It's  because  I 
am  afraid  you  will  think,  that  I  hesitate  to  assign 
you  to  the  position." 

The  sharp  words  acted  like  a  dash  of  cold  water  in 
the  young  man's  face.  Unconsciously,  he  straightened 
in  his  saddle.  "Thank  you,  Brian.  I  understand. 
You  can  depend  upon  me." 

"Good  boy !"  came  the  hearty  and  instant  approval. 
"If  you  see  anything,  go  to  it;  leaving  a  note  here, 
under  a  stone  on  top  of  this  rock ;  I'll  find  it  to-night, 
when  I  come  back.  If  nothing  shows  up,  stay  until 
dark,  and  then  go  down  to  Carleton's.  I'll  be  in  late. 
The  rest  of  the  party  will  stay  over  at  Pine  Glen." 

Alone  on  the  peak  where  he  had  sat  with  Sibyl 
the  day  of  their  last  climb,  Aaron  King  watched  for 

382 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOULD 

the  buzzards'  telltale,  circling  flight — and  tried  not  to 
think. 

It  was  one  o'clock  when  the  artist — resting  his  eyes 
for  a  moment,  after  a  long,  searching  look  through 
the  glass — caught,  again,  that  flash  of  light  in  the 
blue  haze  that  lay  over  Fairlands  in  the  distant 
valley.  Brian  Oakley  had  said, — when  they  had  seen 
it  that  first  day  of  the  search, — that  it  was  a  common 
sight;  but  the  artist,  his  mind  preoccupied,  watched 
the  point  of  light  with  momentary,  idle  interest. 

Suddenly,  he  awoke  to  the  fact  that  there  seemed 
to  be  a  timed  regularity  in  the  flashes.  Into  his  mind 
came  the  memory  of  something  he  had  read  of  the 
heliograph,  and  of  methods  of  signalling  with  mir- 
rors. Closely,  now,  he  watched — three  flashes  in 
quick  succession — pause — two  flashes — pause — one 
flash — pause — one  flash — pause — two  flashes — pause 
— three  flashes — pause.  For  several  minutes  the 
artist  waited,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  distant  spot  under 
the  haze.  Then  the  flashes  began  again,  repeating  the 

same  order : . 

At.  the  last  flash,  the  man  sprang  to  his  feet,  and 
searched  the  mountain  peaks  and  spurs  behind  him. 
On  lonely  Granite  Peak,  at  the  far  end  of  the  Galena 
Range,  a  flash  of  light  caught  his  eye — then  another 
and  another.  With  an  exclamation,  he  lifted  his 
glass.  He  could  distinguish  nothing  but  the  peak 
from  which  had  come  the  flashes.  He  turned  toward 
the  valley  to  see  a  long  flash  and  then — only  the  haze 
and  the  dark  spot  that,  he  knew  to  be  the  orange 
groves  about  Fairlands. 

Aaron  King  sank,  weak  and  trembling,  against  the 

383 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

rock.  What  should  he  do  ?  What  could  he  do  ?  The 
signals  might  mean  much.  They  might  mean  nothing. 
Brian  Oakley's  words  that  morning,  came  to  him; 
"I  am  recognizing  every  possibility,  and  letting  noth- 
ing, nothing,  get  away  from  me."  Instantly,  he  was 
galvanized  into  life.  Idle  thinking,  wondering,  con- 
jecturing, could  accomplish  nothing. 

Riding  as  fast  as  possible  down  to  the  boulder 
beside  the  trail,  where  he  was  to  leave  his  message, 
he  wrote  a  note  and  placed  it  under  the  rock.  Then 
he  set  out,  to  ride  the  fire-break  along  the  top  of  the 
range,  toward  the  distant  Granite  Peak.  An  hour's 
riding  took  him  to  the  end  of  the  fire-break,  and  he 
saw  that  from  there  on  he  must  go  afoot. 

Tying  the  bridle-reins  over  the  saddle-horn,  and 
fastening  a  note  to  the  saddle,  in  case  any  one  should 
find  the  horse,  he  turned  the  animal's  head  back  the 
way  he  had  come,  and,  with  a  sharp  blow,  started  it 
forward.  He  knew  that  the  horse — one  of  Carleton's 
— would  probably  make  its  way  homa  Turning,  he 
set  his  face  toward  the  lonely  peak ;  carrying  his  can- 
teen and  what  was  left  of  his  lunch. 

There  was  no  trail  for  his  feet  now.  At  times,  he 
forced  his  way  through  and  over  bushes  of  buck-thorn 
and  manzanita  that  seemed,  with  their  sharp  thorns 
and  tangled  branches,  to  be  stubbornly  fighting  him 
back.  At  times,  he  made  his  way  along  some  steep 
slope,  from  pine  to  pine,  where  the  ground  was  slip- 
pery with  the  brown  needles,  and  where  to  lose  his 
footing  meant  a  fall  of  a  thousand  feet.  Again,  he 
scaled  some  rocky  cliff,  clinging  with  his  fingers  to 
jutting  points  of  rock,  finding  niches  and  projections 

384 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

for  his  feet;  or,  with  the  help  of  vine  and  root  and 
bush,  found  a  way  down  some  seemingly  impossible 
precipice.  Now  and  then,  from  some  higher  point, 
he  sighted  Granite  Peak.  Often,  he  saw,  far  below, 
on  one  hand  the  great  canyon,  and  on  the  other  the 
wide  Galena  Valley.  Always  he  pushed  forward. 
His  face  was  scratched  and  stained ;  his  clothing  was 
torn  by  the  bushes;  his  hands  were  bloody  from  the 
sharp  rocks ;  his  body  reeked  with  sweat ;  his  breath 
came  in  struggling  gasps ;  but  he  would  not  stop.  He 
felt  himself  driven,  as  it  were,  by  some  inner  power 
that  made  him  insensible  to  hardship  or  death.  Far 
behind  him,  the  sun  dropped  below  the  sky-line  of  the 
distant  San  Gabriels,  but  he  did  not  notice.  Only 
when  the  dusk  of  the  coming  night  was  upon  him, 
did  he  realize  that  the  day  was  gone. 

On  a  narrow  shelf,  in  the  lee  of  a  great  cliff,  he 
hastily  gathered  material  for  a  fire,  and,  with  his 
back  to  the  rock,  ate  a  little  of  the  food  he  carried. 
Far  up  on  that  wind-swept,  mountain  ridge,  the  night 
was  bitter  cold.  Again  and  again  he  aroused  himself 
from  the  weary  stupor  that  numbed  his  senses,  and 
replenished  the  fire,  or  forced  himself  to  pace  to  and 
fro  upon  the  ledge.  Overhead,  he  saw  the  stars 
glittering  with  a  strange  brilliancy.  In  the  canyon, 
far  below,  there  were  a  few  twinkling  lights  to  mark 
the  Carleton  ranch,  and  the  old  home  of  Sibyl,  where 
Conrad  Lagrange  and  Myra  Willard  waited.  Miles 
away,  the  lights  of  the  towns  among  the  orange  groves, 
twinkled  like  feeble  stars  in  another  feeble  world. 
The  cold  wind  moaned  and  wailed  in  the  dark  pines 
and  swirled  about  the  cliff  in  sudden  gusts.  A  cougar 

385 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

screamed  somewhere  on  the  mountainside  below.  An 
answering  scream  came  from  the  ledge  above  his  head. 
The  artist  threw  more  fuel  upon  his  fire,  and  grimly 
walked  his  beat. 

In  the  cold,  gray  dawn  of  that  Friday  morning, 
he  ate  a  few  mouthfuls  of  his  scanty  store  of  food 
and,  as  soon  as  it  was  light, — even  while  the  canyon 
below  was  still  in  the  gloom, — started  on  his  way. 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  when,  almost  exhausted,  he 
reached  what  he  knew  must  be  the  peak  that  he  had 
seen  through  his  glass  the  day  before.  There  was 
little  or  no  vegetation  upon  that  high,  wind-swept 
point.  The  side  toward  the  distant  peak  from  which 
the  artist  had  seen  the  signals,  was  an  abrupt  cliff — 
hundreds  of  feet  of  sheer,  granite  rock.  From  the 
rim  of  this  precipice,  the  peak  sloped  gradually  down 
and  back  to  the  edge  of  the  pines  that  grew  about  its 
base.  The  ground  in  the  open  space  was  bare  and 
hard. 

Carefully,  Aaron  King  searched — as  he  had  seen 
the  Ranger  do — for  signs.  Beginning  at  a  spot  near 
the  edge  of  the  cliff,  he  worked  gradually,  back  and 
forth,  in  ever  widening  arcs,  toward  the  pines  below. 
He  was  almost  ready  to  give  up  in  despair,  cursing 
himself  for  being  such  a  fool  as  to  think  that  he  could 
pick  up  a  trail,  when,  clearly  marked  in  a  bit  of  softer 
soil,  he  saw  the  print  of  a  hob-nailed  boot. 

Instantly  the  man's  weariness  was  gone.  The  long, 
hard  way  he  had  come  was  forgotten.  Insensible, 
now,  to  hunger  and  fatigue,  he  moved  eagerly  in  the 
direction  the  boot-track  pointed.  He  was  rewarded 
by  another  track.  Then,  as  he  moved  nearer  the  softer 

386 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

ground,  toward  the  trees,  another  and  another  and 
then — 

The  man — worn  by  his  physical  exertion,  and  by 
his  days  of  mental  anguish — for  a  moment,  lost  con- 
trol of  himself.  Clearly  marked,  beside  the  broad 
track  of  the  heavier,  man's  boot,  was  the  unmistakable 
print  of  a  smaller,  lighter  foot. 

For  a  moment  he  stood  with  clenched  fists  and 
heaving  breast ;  then,  with  grim  eagerness,  with  every 
sense  supernaturally  alert,  with  nerves  tense,  quick 
eyes  and  ready  muscles,  he  went  forward  on  the  trail. 


It  was  after  dark,  that  night,  when  Brian  Oakley, 
on  his  way  back  to  Clear  Creek,  stopped  at  the  rock 
where  the  artist  had  left  his  note. 

Reaching  the  floor  of  the  canyon,  he  crossed  to  tell 
Myra  Willard  and  the  novelist  the  result  of  the  day's 
search.  The  men  riding  in  the  vicinity  of  Pine  Glen 
had  found  nothing.  It  had  been — as  the  Ranger 
expected — impossible  to  follow  back  for  any  distance 
on  the  track  of  the  roaming  horse,  for  the  animal  had 
been  grazing  about  the  Pine  Glen  neighborhood  for 
at  least  a  day.  Over  the  note  left  by  Aaron  King, 
the  mountaineer  shook  his  head  doubtfully.  Aaron 
had  done  right  to  go.  But  for  one  of  his  inexperience, 
the  way  along  the  crest  of  the  Galenas  was  practically 
impossible.  If  the  young  man  had  known,  he  could 
have  made  the  trip  much  easier  by  returning  to  Clear 
Creek  and  following  up  to  the  head  of  that  canyon, 
then  climbing  to  the  crest  of  the  divide,  and  so  around 
to  Granite  Peak.  The  Ranger,  himself,  would  start, 

387 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOKLD 

at  daybreak,  for  the  peak,  by  that  route;  and  would 
come  back  along  the  crest  of  the  range,  to  find  the 
artist 

At  Carleton's,  they  told  the  officer  that  Aaron's 
horse  had  come  in.  Jack  Carleton  and  his  father 
arrived  from  the  country  above  Lone  Cabin  and 
Burnt  Pine,  a  few  minutes  after  Brian  Oakley 
reached  the  ranch.  It  was  agreed  that  Henry  should 
join  the  searchers  at  Pine  Glen,  at  daybreak — lest 
any  one  should  have  seen  the  artists  camp-fire,  that 
night,  and  so  lose  precious  time  going  to  it — and  that 
Jack  should  accompany  the  Ranger  to  Granite  Peak. 

Henry  Carleton  had  gone  on  his  way  to  Pine  Glen, 
and  Brian  Oakley  and  Jack  were  in  the  saddle,  ready 
to  start  up  the  canyon,  the  next  morning,  when  a 
messenger  from  the  Sheriff  arrived.  An  automobile 
had  been  seen  returning  from  the  mountains,  about 
two  o'clock  that  night.  There  was  only  one  man  in 
the  car. 

"Jack,"  said  the  Ranger,  "Aaron  has  got  hold  of 
the  right  end  of  this,  with  his  mirror  flashes.  You've 
got  to  go  up  the  canyon  alone.  Get  to  Granite  Peak 
as  quick  as  God  will  let  you,  and  pick  up  the  trail  of 
whoever  signalled  from  there ;  keeping  one  eye  open 
for  Aaron.  I'm  going  to  trail  that  automobile  as  far 
as  it  went,  and  follow  whatever  met  or  left  it.  We'll 
likely  meet  somewhere,  over  in  the  Cold  Water 
country." 

A  minute  later  the  two  men  who  had  planned  to 
ride  together  were  going  in  opposite  directions. 

Following  the  Fairlands  road  until  he  came  to 
where  the  Galena  Valley  road  branches  off  from  the 

388 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

Clear  Creek  way,  three  miles  below  the  Power-House 
at  the  mouth  of  the  canyon,  Brian  Oakley  found  the 
tracks  of  an  automohile — made  without  doubt,  during 
the  night  just  past  The  machine  had  gone  up  the 
Galena  \ralley  road,  and  had  returned. 

A  little  before  noon,  the  officer  stood  where  the 
automobile  had  stopped  and  turned  around  for  the 
return  trip.  The  place  was  well  up  toward  the  head 
of  the  valley,  near  the  mouth  of  a  canyon  that  leads 
upward  toward  Granite  Peak.  An  hour's  careful 
work,  and  the  Ranger  uncovered  a  small  store  of 
supplies ;  hidden  a  quarter  of  a  mile  up  the  canyon. 
There  were  tracks  leading  away  up  the  side  of  the 
mountain.  Turning  his  horse  loose  to  find  its  way 
home ;  Brian  Oakley,  without  stopping  for  lunch,  set 
out  on  the  trail. 


High  up  on  Granite  Peak,  Aaron  King  was  bend- 
ing over  the  print  of  a  slender  shoe,  beside  the  track 
of  a  heavy  hob-nailed  boot.  Somewhere  in  Clear 
Creek  canyon,  Jack  Carleton  was  riding  to  gain  the 
point  where  the  artist  stood.  At  the  foot  of  the 
mountain,  on  the  other  side  of  the  range,  Brian  Oak- 
ley was  setting  out  to  follow  the  faint  trail  that 
started  at  the  supplies  brought  by  the  automobile,  in 
the  night,  from  Fairlands. 


389 


CHAPTER  XXXV 
A  HARD  WAY 

HEIST  Sibyl  Andres  left  the  studio,  after 
meeting  Mrs.  Taine,  her  mind  was  domi- 
nated by  one  thought — that  she  must  get 
away  from  the  world  that  saw  only  evil 
in  her  friendship  with  Aaron  King — a 
friendship  that,  to  the  mountain  girl,  was 
as  pure  as  her  relations  to  Myra  Willard  or  Brian 
Oakley. 

Under  the  watchful,  experienced  care  of  the  woman 
with  the  disfigured  face,  only  the  worthy  had  been 
permitted  to  enter  into  the  life  of  this  child  of  the 
hills.  Sibyl's  character — mind  and  heart  and  body 
and  soul — had  been  formed  by  the  strength  and 
purity  of  her  mountain  environment ;  by  her  associa- 
tion with  her  parents,  with  Myra  Willard,  and  with 
her  parents'  life-long  friends;  and  by  her  mental 
comradeship  with  the  greatest  spirits  that  music  and 
literature  have  given  to  the  world.  As  her  physical 
strength  and  beauty  was  the  gift  of  her  free  mountain 
life,  the  beauty  and  strength  of  her  pure  spirit  was 
the  gift  of  those  kindred  spirits  that  are  as  mountains 
in  the  mental  and  spiritual  life  of  the  race. 

Love  had  come  to  Sibyl  Andres,  not  as  it  comes  to 
those  girls  who,  in  the  hot-house  of  passion  we  call 
civilization,  are  forced  into  premature  and  sickly 

390 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

bloom  by  an  atmosphere  of  sensuality.  Love  had  come 
to  her  so  gently,  so  naturally,  so  like  the  opening  of 
a  wild  flower,  that  she  had  not  yet  understood  that  it 
was  love.  Even  as  her  womanhood  had  come  to  fulfill 
her  girlhood,  so  Aaron  King  had  come  into  her  life 
to  fulfill  her  womanhood.  She  had  chosen  her  mate 
with  an  unconscious  obedience  to  the  laws  of  life  that 
was  divinely  reckless  of  the  world. 

Myra  Willard,  wise  in  her  experience,  and  in  her 
more  than  mother  love  for  Sibyl,  saw  and  recognized 
that  which  the  girl  herself  did  not  yet  understand. 
Satisfied  as  to  the  character  of  Aaron  King,  as  it  had 
been  tested  in  those  days  of  unhampered  companion- 
ship ;  and  seeing,  as  well,  his  growing  love  for  the 
girl,  the  woman  had  been  content  not  to  meddle  with 
that  which  she  conceived  to  be  the  work  of  God.  And 
why  not  the  work  of  God  ?  Should  the  development, 
the  blossoming,  and  the  fruiting  of  human  lives,  that 
the  race  may  flower  and  fruit,  be  held  less  a  work  of 
divinity  than  the  plants  that  mature  and  blossom 
and  reproduce  themselves  in  their  children  ? 

The  character  of  Mrs.  Taine  represented  those 
forces  in  life  that  are,  in  every  way,  antagonistic  to 
the  forces  that  make  the  character  of  a  Sibyl  Andres 
possible.  In  a  spirit  of  wanton,  selfish  cruelty,  that 
was  born  of  her  worldly  environment  and  training, 
"The  Age"  had  twisted  and  distorted  the  very  virtues 
of  "Nature"  into  something  as  hideously  ugly  and 
vile  as  her  own  thoughts.  The  woman — product  of 
gross  materialism  and  sensuality — had  caught  in  her 
licentious  hands  God's  human  flower  and  had  crushed 
its  beauty  with  deliberate  purpose.  Wounded,  f right- 

391 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

ened,  dismayed,  not  understanding,  unable  to  deny, 
the  girl  turned  in  reluctant  flight  from  the  place  that 
was,  to  her,  because  of  her  love,  holy  ground. 

It  was  impossible  for  Sibyl  not  to  believe  Mre. 
Taine — the  woman  had  spoken  so  kindly ;  had  seemed 
so  reluctant  to  speak  at  all ;  had  appeared  so  to  appre- 
ciate her  innocence.  A  thousand  trivial  and  unim- 
portant incidents,  that,  in  the  light  of  the  worldly 
woman's  words,  could  be  twisted  to  evidence  the 
truth  of  the  things  she  said,  came  crowding  in  upon 
the  girl's  mind.  Instead  of  helping  Aaron  King  with 
his  work,  instead  of  truly  enjoying  life  with  him,  as 
she  had  thought,  her  friendship  was  to  him  a  menace, 
a  danger.  She  had  believed — and  the  belief  had 
brought  her  a  strange  happiness — that  he  had  cared 
for  her  companionship.  He  had  cared  only  to  use  her 
for  his  pictures — as  he  used  his  brushes.  He  had 
played  with  her — as  she  had  seen  him  toy  idly  with 
a  brush,  while  thinking  over  his  work.  He  would 
throw  her  aside,  when  she  had  served  his  purpose,  as 
she  had  seen  him  throw  a  worn-out  brush  aside. 

The  woman  who  was  still  a  child  conld  not  blame 
the  artist — she  was  too  loyal  to  what  she  had  thought 
was  their  friendship ;  she  was  too  unselfish  in  her  yet 
unrecognized  love  for  her  chosen  mate.  No,  she  could 
not  blame  him — only — only — she  wished — oh  how 
she  wished — that  she  had  understood.  It  would  not 
have  hurt  so,  perhaps,  if  she  had  understood. 

In  all  the  cruel  tangle  of  her  emotions,  in  all  her 
confused  and  bewildering  thoughts,  in  all  her  suffer- 
ing, one  thing  was  clear ;  she  must  get  away  from  the 
world  that  could  see  only  evil — she  must  go  at  once. 

392 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

Conrad  Lagrange  and  Aaron  King  might  come  at  any 
moment.  She  could  not  face  them;  now  that  she 
knew.  She  wished  Myra  was  home.  But  she  would 
leave  a  little  note  and  Myra — dear  Myra  with  her 
disfigured  face — would  understand. 

Quickly,  the  girl  wrote  her  letter.  Hurriedly,  she 
dressed  in  her  mountain  costume.  Still  acting  under 
her  blind  impulse  to  escape,  she  made  no  explanations 
to  the  neighbors,  when  she  went  for  the  horse.  In 
her  desire  to  avoid  coming  face  to  face  with  any  one, 
she  even  chose  the  more  unfrequented  streets  through 
the  orange  groves.  In  her  humiliation  and  shame, 
she  wished  for  the  kindly  darkness  of  the  night.  Not 
until  she  had  left  the  city  far  behind,  and,  in  the  soft 
dusk,  drew  near  the  mouth  of  the  canyon,  did  she 
regain  some  measure  of  her  self-control. 

As  she  was  overtaking  the  Power  Company's  team 
and  wagon  of  supplies,  she  turned  in  her  saddle,  for 
the  first  time,  to  look  back.  A  mile  away,  on  the 
road,  she  could  see  a  cloud  of  dust  and  a  dark,  moving 
spot  which  she  knew  to  be  an  automobile.  One  of  the 
Company  machines,  she  thought ;  and  drew  a  breath 
of  relief  that  Fairlands  was  so  far  away. 

It  was  quite  dark  as  she  entered  the  canyon ;  but, 
as  she  drew  near,  she  could  see  against  the  sky,  those 
great  gates,  opening  silently,  majestically  to  receive 
her.  From  within  the  canyon,  she  watched,  as  she 
rode,  to  see  them  slowly  close  again.  The  sight  of  the 
encircling  peaks  and  ridges,  rising  in  solemn  gran- 
deur out  of  the  darkness  into  the  light  of  the  stars, 
comforted  her.  The  night  wind,  drawing  down  the 
canyon,  was  sweet  and  bracing  with  the  odor  of  the 

393 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

hills.  The  roar  of  the  tumbling  Clear  Creek,  filling 
the  night  with  its  deep-toned  music,  soothed  and 
calmed  her  troubled  mind.  Presently,  she  would  be 
with  her  friends,  and,  somehow,  all  would  be  well. 

The  girl  had  ridden  half  the  distance,  perhaps, 
from  the  canyon  gates  to  the  Ranger  Station  when, 
above  the  roar  of  the  mountain  stream,  her  quick  ear 
caught  the  sound  of  an  automobile,  behind  her. 
Looking  back,  she  saw  the  gleam  of  the  lights,  like 
two  great  eyes  in  the  darkness.  A  Company  machine, 
going  up  to  the  Head- Work,  she  thought.  Or,  per- 
haps, the  Doctor,  to  see  some  one  of  the  mountain  folk. 

As  the  automobile  drew  nearer,  she  reined  her 
horse  out  of  the  road,  and  halted  in  the  thick  chap- 
arral, to  let  it  pass.  The  blazing  lights,  as  her  horse 
turned  to  face  the  approaching  machine,  blinded  her. 
The  animal  restive  under  the  ordeal,  demanded  all 
her  attention.  She  scarcely  noticed  that  the  auto- 
mobile had  slowed  down,  when  within  a  few  feet  of 
her,  until  a  man,  suddenly,  stood  at  her  horse's  head ; 
his  hand  on  the  bridle-rein  as  though  to  assist  her. 
At  the  same  instant,  the  machine  moved  past  them, 
and  stopped ;  its  engine  still  running. 

Still  with  the  thought  of  the  Company  men  in  her 
mind,  the  girl  saw  only  their  usual  courtesy.  "Thank 
you,"  she  said,  "I  can  handle  him  very  nicely." 

But  the  man — whom  she  had  not  had  time  to  see, 
blinded  as  she  had  been  by  the  light,  and  who  was 
now  only  dimly  visible  in  the  darkness — stepped 
close  to  the  horse's  shoulder,  as  if  to  make  himself 
more  easily  heard  above  the  noise  of  the  machine,  his 
hand  still  holding  the  bridle-rein. 

394 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOULD 

"It  is  Miss  Andres,  is  it  not  ?"  He  spoke  as  though 
he  was  known  to  her;  and  the  girl — still  thinking 
that  it  was  one  of  the  Company  men,  and  feeling  that 
he  expected  her  to  recognize  him — leaned  forward 
to  see  his  face,  as  she  answered. 

Instantly,  the  stranger — standing  close  and  taking 
advantage  of  the  girl's  position  as  she  stooped  toward 
him  from  the  saddle — caught  her  in  his  powerful  arms 
and  lifted  her  to  the  ground.  At  the  same  moment,  the 
man's  companion  who,  under  cover  of  the  darkness 
and  the  noise  of  the  machine,  had  drawn  close  to  the 
other  side  of  the  horse,  caught  the  bridle-rein. 

Before  the  girl,  taken  so  off  her  guard  could  cry 
out,  a  softly-rolled,  silk  handkerchief  was  thrust  be- 
tween her  lips  and  skillfully  tied  in  place.  She  strug- 
gled desperately;  but,  against  the  powerful  arms  of 
her  captor,  her  splendid,  young  strength  was  useless. 
As  he  bound  her  hands,  the  man  spoke  reassuringly ; 
"Don't  fight,  Miss.  I'm  not  going  to  hurt  you.  I've 
got  to  do  this ;  but  I'll  be  as  easy  as  I  can.  It  will  do 
you  no  good  to  wear  yourself  out." 

Frightened  as  she  was,  the  girl  felt  that  the 
stranger  was  as  gentle  as  the  circumstances  permitted 
him  to  be.  He  had  not,  in  fact,  hurt  her  at  all ;  and, 
in  his  voice,  she  caught  a  tone  of  genuine  regret.  He 
seemed  to  be  acting  wholly  against  his  will;  as  if 
driven  by  some  power  that  rendered  him,  in  fact,  as 
helpless  as  his  victim. 

The  other  man,  still  standing  by  the  horse's  head, 
spoke  sharply;  "All  right  there?" 

"All  right,  sir,"  gruffly  answered  the  man  who  held 
Sibyl,  and  lifting  the  helpless  girl  gently  in  his  arms 

395 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

he  seated  her  carefully  in  the  machine.  An  auto- 
mobile-coat was  thrown  around  her,  the  high  collar 
turned  up  to  hide  the  handkerchief  about  her  lips, 
and  her  hat  was  replaced  by  an  "auto-cap,"  pulled 
low.  Then  her  captor  went  back  to  the  horse;  the 
other  man  took  the  seat  beside  her ;  and  the  car  moved 
forward. 

The  girl's  fright  now  gave  way  to  perfect  coolness. 
Realizing  the  uselessness  of  any  effort  to  escape,  she 
wisely  saved  her  strength ;  watchful  to  take  quick  ad- 
vantage of  any  opportunity  that  might  present  itself. 
Silently,  she  worked  at  her  bonds,  and  endeavored  to 
release  the  bandage  that  prevented  her  from  crying 
out.  But  the  hands  that  had  bound  her  had  been  too 
skillful.  Turning  her  head,  she  tried  to  see  her  com- 
panion's face.  But,  in  the  darkness,  with  upturned 
collar  and  cap  pulled  low  over  "auto-glasses,"  the 
identity  of  the  man  driving  the  oar  was  effectually 
hidden. 

Only  when  they  were  passing  the  Ranger  Station 
and  Sibyl  saw  the  lights  through  the  trees,  did  she, 
for  a  moment,  renew  her  struggle.  With  all  her 
strength  she  strained  to  release  her  hands.  One  cry 
from  her  strong,  young  voice  wo*ld  bring  Brian 
Oakley  so  quickly  after  the  automobile  that  her 
safety  would  be  assured.  On  that  mountain  road,  the 
chestnut  would  soon  run  them  down.  She  even  tried 
to  throw  herself  from  the  car ;  but,  bound  as  she  was, 
the  hand  of  her  companion  easily  prevented,  and  she 
sank  back  in  the  seat,  exhausted  by  her  useless  ex- 
ertion. 

At  the  foot  of  the  Oak  Knoll  trail  the  automobile 

396 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

stopped.  The  man  who  had  been  following  on  Sibyl's 
horse  came  up  quickly.  Swiftly,  the  two  men 
worked;  placing  sacks  of  supplies  and  blankets — as 
the  girl  guessed — on  the  animal.  Presently,  the  one 
who  had  bound  her,  lifted  her  gently  from  the  auto- 
mobile. "Don't  hurt  yourself,  Miss,"  he  said  in  her 
ear,  as  he  carried  her  toward  the  horse.  "It  will  do 
you  no  good."  And  the  girl  did  not  again  resist,  as 
he  lifted  her  to  the  saddle. 

The  driver  of  the  car  said  something  to  his  com- 
panion, in  a  low  tone,  and  Sibyl  heard  her  captor  an- 
swer, "The  girl  will  be  as  safe  with  me  as  if  she  were 
in  her  own  home." 

Again,  the  other  spoke,  and  the  girl  heard  only 
the  reply ;  "Don't  worry ;  I  understand  that.  I'll  go 
through  with  it.  You've  left  me  no  chance  to  do 
anything  else." 

Then,  stepping  to  the  horse's  head  and  taking  the 
bridle-rein,  the  man  who  seemed  to  be  under  orders, 
led  the  way  up  the  canyon.  Behind  them,  the  girl 
heard  the  automobile  starting  on  its  return.  The 
sound  died  away  in  the  distance.  The  silence  of  the 
night  was  disturbed  only  by  the  sound  of  the  man's 
hob-nailed  boots  and  the  horse's  iron-shod  feet  on  the 
road. 

Once,  her  captor  halted  a  moment,  and,  coming  to 
the  horse's  shoulder,  asked  if  she  was  comfortable. 
The  girl  bowed  her  head.  "I'm  sorry  for  that  gag," 
he  said.  "As  soon  as  it's  safe,  I'll  remove  it;  but  I 
dare  not  take  chances."  He  turned  abruptly  away 
and  they  went  on. 

Dimly,  Sibyl  saw,  in  her  companion's  manner,  a 

397 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

ray  of  hope.  That  no  immediate  danger  threatened, 
she  was  assured.  That  the  man  was  acting  against 
his  will,  was  as  evident.  Wisely,  she  resolved  to  bend 
her  efforts  toward  enlisting  his  sympathies, — to  make 
it  hard  for  him  to  carry  out  the  purpose  of  whoever 
controlled  him, — instead  of  antagonizing  him  by  con- 
tinued resistance  and  repeated  attempts  to  escape, 
and  so  making  it  easier  for  him  to  do  his  master's 
bidding. 

Leaving  the  canyon  by  the  Laurel  Creek  trail,  they 
reached  Burnt  Pine,  where  the  man  removed  the 
handkerchief  that  sealed  the  girl's  lips. 

"Oh,  thank  you,"  she  said  quietly.  "That  is  so 
much  better." 

"I'm  sorry  that  I  had  to  do  it,"  he  returned,  as  he 
unbound  her  arms.  "There,  you  may  get  down  now, 
and  rest,  while  I  fix  a  bit  of  lunch  for  you." 

The  girl  sprang  to  the  ground.  "It  is  a  relief  to 
be  free,"  she  said.  "But,  really,  I'm  not  a  bit  tired. 
Can't  I  help  you  with  the  pack  ?" 

"No,"  returned  the  other,  gruffly,  as  though  he 
understood  her  purpose  and  put  himself  on  his  guard. 
"We'll  only  be  here  a  few  minutes,  and  it's  a  long 
road  ahead.  You  must  rest." 

Obediently,  she  sat  down  on  the  ground,  her  back 
against  a  tree. 

As  they  lunched,  in  the  dim  light  of  the  stars,  she 
said,  "May  I  ask  where  you  are  taking  me  ?" 

"It's  a  long  road,  Miss  Andres.  We'll  be  there  to- 
morrow night,"  he  answered  reluctantly. 

Again,  she  ventured  timidly;  "And  is,  is — some 
one  waiting  for — for  us,  at  the  end  of  our  journey  ?" 

398 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

The  man's  voice  was  kinder  as  he  answered,  "No, 
Miss  Andres ;  there'll  be  just  you  and  me,  for  some 
time.  And,"  he  added,  "you  don't  need  to  fear  me." 

"I  am  not  at  all  afraid  of  you,"  she  returned 
gently.  "But  I  am — "  she  hesitated — "I  am  sorry 
for  you — that  you  have  to  do  this." 

The  man  arose  abruptly.    "We  must  be  going." 

For  some  distance  beyond  Burnt  Pine,  they  kept  to 
the  Laurel  Creek  trail,  toward  San  Gorgonio;  then 
they  turned  aside  to  follow  some  unmarked  way, 
known  only  to  the  man.  When  the  first  soft  tints  of 
the  day  shone  in  the  sky  behind  the  peaks  and  ridges, 
while  Sibyl's  friends  were  assembling  at  the  Carleton 
Ranch  in  Clear  Creek  Canyon,  and  Brian  Oakley  was 
directing  the  day's  search,  the  girl  was  following  her 
guide  in  the  wild  depths  of  the  mountain  wilderness, 
miles  from  any  trail.  The  country  was  strange  to 
her,  but  she  knew  that  they  were  making  their  way, 
far  above  the  canyon  rim,  on  the  side  of  the  San 
Bernardino  range,  toward  the  distant  Cold  Water 
country  that  opened  into  the  great  desert  beyond. 

As  the  light  grew  stronger,  Sibyl  saw  her  com- 
panion; a  man  of  medium  height,  with  powerful 
shoulders  and  arms ;  dressed  in  khaki,  with  mountain 
boots.  Under  his  arm,  as  he  led  the  way  with  a 
powerful  stride  that  told  of  almost  tireless  strength, 
the  girl  saw  the  familiar  stock  of  a  Winchester  rifle. 
Presently  he  halted,  and  as  he  turned,  she  saw  his 
face.  It  was  not  a  bad  face.  A  heavy  beard  hid 
mouth  and  cheek  and  throat,  but  the  nose  was  not 
coarse  or  brutal,  and  the  brow  was  broad  and  in- 
telligent. In  the  brown  eyes  there  was,  the  girl 

399 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

thought,  a  look  of  wistful  sadness,  as  though  there 
were  memories  that  could  not  be  escaped. 

"We  will  have  breakfast  here,  if  you  please,  Miss 
Andres,"  he  said  gravely. 

"I'm  so  hungry,"  she  answered,  dismounting. 
"May  I  make  the  coffee  ?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "I'm  sorry ;  but  there  must  be 
no  telltale  smoke.  The  Ranger  and  his  riders  are 
out  by  now,  as  like  as  not." 

"You  seem  very  familiar  with  the  country,"  she 
said,  moving  easily  toward  the  rifle  which  he  had 
leaned  against  a  tree,  while  he  busied  himself  with 
the  pack  of  supplies. 

"I  am,"  he  answered.  "I  have  been  forced  to  learn 
it  thoroughly.  By  the  way,  Miss  Andres," — he  added, 
without  turning  his  head,  as  he  knelt  on  the  ground 
to  take  food  from  the  pack, — "that  Winchester  will 
do  you  no  good.  It  is  not  loaded.  I  have  the  shells 
in  my  belt."  He  arose,  facing  her,  and  throwing 
open  his  coat,  touched  the  butt  of  a  Colt  forty-five 
that  hung  in  a  shoulder  holster  under  his  left  armpit. 
"This  will  serve  in  case  quick  action  is  needed,  and 
it  is  always  safely  out  of  your  reach,  you  see." 

The  girl  laughed.  "I  admit  that  I  was  tempted," 
she  said.  "I  might  have  known  that  you  put  the  rifle 
within  my  reach  to  try  me." 

"I  thought  it  would  save  you  needless  disappoint- 
ment, to  make  things  clear  at  once,"  he  answered. 
"Breakfast  is  ready." 

The  incident  threw  a  strong  light  upon  the  charac- 
ter with  which  Sibyl  had  to  deal.  She  realized,  more 


400 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

than  ever,  that  her  only  hope  lay  in  so  winning  this 
man's  sympathies  and  friendship  that  he  would  turn 
against  whoever  had  forced  him  into  his  present  posi- 
tion. The  struggle  was  to  be  one  of  those  silent 
battles  of  the  spirit,  where  the  forces  that  war  are  not 
seen  but  only  felt,  and  where  those  who  fight  must 
often  fight  with  smiling  faces.  The  girl's  part  was  to 
enlist  her  captor  to  fight  for  her,  against  himself. 
She  saw,  as  clearly,  the  need  of  approaching  her  ob- 
ject with  caution.  Eager  to  know  who  it  was  that 
ruled  this  man,  and  by  what  peculiar  power  a  charac- 
ter so  strong  could  be  so  subjected,  she  dared  not  ask. 
Hour  after  hour,  as  they  journeyed  deeper  and  deeper 
into  the  mountain  wilds,  she  watched  and  waited  for 
some  sign  that  her  companion's  mood  would  make 
it  safe  for  her  to  approach  him.  Meanwhile,  she 
exercised  all  her  womanly  tact  to  lead  him  to  forget 
his  distasteful  position,  and  so  to  make  his  un- 
congenial task  as  pleasant  as  possible. 

The  girl  did  not  realize  how  far  her  decision,  in 
itself,  aroused  the  admiring  sympathy  of  her  captor. 
Her  coolness,  self-possession,  and  bravery  in  meeting 
the  situation  with  calm,  watchful  readiness,  rather 
than  with  hysterical  moaning  and  frantic  pleading, 
did  more  than  she  realized  toward  accomplishing  her 
purpose. 

During  that  long  forenoon,  she  sought  to  engage 
her  guide  in  conversation,  quite  as  though  they  were 
making  a  pleasure  trip  that  was  mutually  agreeable. 
The  man — as  though  he  also  desired  his  thoughts 
removed  as  far  as  might  be  from  his  real  mission — 


401 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

responded  readily,  and  succeeded  in  making  himself 
a  really  interesting  companion.  Only  once,  did  the 
girl  venture  to  approach  dangerous  ground. 

"Really,"  she  said,  "I  wish  I  knew  your  name.  It 
seems  so  stupid  not  to  know  how  to  address  you.  Is 
that  asking  too  much  ?" 

The  man  did  not  answer  for  some  time,  and  the 
girl  saw  his  face  clouded  with  somber  thought. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said  gently.  "I — I  ought 
not  to  have  asked." 

"My  name  is  Henry  Marston,  Miss  Andres,"  he 
said  deliberately.  "But  it  is  not  the  name  by  which 
I  am  known  these  days,"  he  added  bitterly.  "It  is 
an  honorable  name,  and  I  would  like  to  hear  it 
again — "  he  paused — "from  you." 

Sibyl  returned  gently,  "Thank  you,  Mr.  Marston — 
believe  me,  I  do  appreciate  your  confidence,  and — " 
she  in  turn  hesitated — "and  I  will  keep  the  trust." 

By  noon,  they  had  reached  Granite  Peak  in  the 
Galenas,  having  come  by  an  unmarked  way,  through 
the  wild  country  around  the  head  of  Clear  Creek 
Canyon. 

They  had  finished  lunch,  when  Marston,  looking  at 
his  watch,  took  a  small  mirror  from  his  pocket  and 
stood  gazing  expectantly  toward  the  distant  valley 
where  Fairlands  lay  under  the  blue  haze.  Presently, 
a  flash  of  light  appeared ;  then  another  and  another. 
It  was  the  signal  that  Aaron  King  had  seen  and  to 
which  he  had  called  Brian  Oakley's  attention,  that 
first  day  of  their  search. 

With  his  mirror,  the  man  on  Granite  Peak  an- 
swered; and  the  girl,  watching  and  understanding 

402 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

that  he  was  communicating  with  some  one,  saw  his 
face  grow  dark  with  anger.  She  did  not  speak. 

They  had  traveled  a  half  mile,  perhaps,  from  the 
peak,  when  the  man  again  stopped,  saying,  "You 
must  dismount  here,  please." 

Removing  the  things  from  the  saddle,  he  led  the 
horse  a  little  way  down  the  Galena  Valley  side  of  the 
ridge,  and  tied  the  reins  to  a  tree.  Then,  slapping  the 
animal  about  the  head  with  his  open  hand,  he  forced 
the  horse  to  break  the  reins,  and  started  him  off 
toward  the  distant  valley.  Again,  the  girl  under- 
stood, and  made  no  comment. 

Lifting  the  pack  to  his  own  strong  shoulders,  her 
companion — his  eyes  avoiding  hers  in  shame — said 
gruffly,  "Come." 

Their  way,  now,  led  down  from  the  higher  levels 
of  peak  and  ridge,  into  the  canyons  and  gorges  of  the 
Cold  Water  country.  There  was  no  trail,  but  the  man 
went  forward  as  one  entirely  at  home.  At  the  head 
of  a  deep  gorge,  where  their  way  seemed  barred  by 
the  face  of  an  impossible  cliff  that  towered  above  their 
heads  a  thousand  feet  and  dropped,  another  thousand, 
sheer  to  the  tops  of  the  pines  below,  he  halted  and 
faced  the  girl,  enquiringly.  "You  have  a  good  head, 
Miss  Andres  ?" 

Sibyl  smiled.  "I  was  born  in  the  mountains,  Mr. 
Marston,"  she  answered.  "You  need  not  fear  for 
me." 

Drawing  near  to  the  very  brink  of  the  precipice, 
he  led  her,  by  a  narrow  ledge,  across  the  face  of  the 
cliff ;  and  then,  by  an  easier  path,  down  the  opposite 
wall  of  the  gorge. 

403 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  they  arrived  at 
a  little  log  cabin  that  was  so  hidden  in  the  wild  tangle 
of  mountain  growth  at  the  bottom  of  the  narrow  can- 
yon as  to  be  invisible  from  a  distance  of  a  hundred 
yards. 

The  girl  knew  that  they  had  reached  the  end  of 
their  journey.  Nearly  exhausted  by  the  hours  of 
physical  exertion,  and  worn  with  the  mental  and 
nervous  strain,  she  sank  down  upon  the  blankets  that 
her  companion  spread  for  her  upon  the  ground. 

"As  soon  as  it  is  dark,  I  will  cook  a  hot  supper  for 
you,"  he  said,  regarding  her  kindly.  "Poor  child, 
this  has  been  a  hard,  hard,  day  for  you.  For  me — " 

Fighting  to  keep  back  the  tears,  she  tried  to  thank 
him.  For  a  moment  he  stood  looking  down  at  her. 
Then  she  saw  his  face  grow  black  with  rage,  and, 
clenching  his  great  fists,  he  turned  away. 

While  waiting  for  the  darkness  that  would  hide 
the  smoke  of  the  fire,  the  man  gathered  cedar  boughs 
from  trees  near-by,  and  made  a  comfortable  bed  in  the 
cabin,  for  the  girl.  As  soon  as  it  was  dark,  he  built 
a  fire  in  the  rude  fire-place,  and,  in  a  few  minutes, 
announced  supper.  The  meal  was  really  excellent; 
and  Sibyl,  in  spite  of  her  situation,  ate  heartily; 
which  won  an  admiring  comment  from  her  captor. 

The  meal  finished,  he  said  awkwardly,  "I  want  to 
thank  you,  Miss  Andres,  for  making  this  day  as  easy 
for  me  as  you  have.  We  will  be  alone  here,  until 
Friday,  at  least ;  perhaps  longer.  There  is  a  bar  to 
the  cabin  door.  You  may  rest  here  as  safely  as 
though  you  were  in  your  own  room.  Good  night." 

Before  she  could  answer,  he  was  gone. 

404 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

A  few  minutes  later,  Sibyl  stood  in  the  open  door. 
"Mr.  Marston,"  she  called. 

"Yes,  Miss  Andres,"  came,  instantly,  out  of  the 
darkness. 

"Please  come  into  the  cabin." 

There  was  no  answer. 

"It  will  be  cold  out  there.    Please  come  inside." 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Andres;  but  I  will  do  very 
nicely.  Bar  the  door  and  go  to  sleep." 

"But,  Mr.  Marston,  I  will  sleep  better  if  I  know 
that  you  are  comfortable." 

The  man  came  to  her  and  she  saw  him  in  the  dim 
light  of  the  fire,  standing  hat  in  hand.  He  spoke 
wonderingly.  "Do  you  mean,  Miss  Andres,  that  you 
would  not  be  afraid  to  sleep,  if  I  occupied  the  cabin 
with  you  ?" 

"No,"  she  answered,  "I  am  not  afraid.    Come  in." 

But  he  did  not  move  to  cross  the  threshold.  "And 
why  are  you  not  afraid  ?"  he  asked  curiously. 

"Because,"  she  answered,  "I  know  that  you  are  a 
gentleman." 

The  man  laughed  harshly — such  a  laugh  as  Sibyl 
had  never  before  heard.  "A  gentleman !  This  is  the 
first  time  I  have  heard  that  word  in  connection  with 
myself  for  many  a  year,  Miss  Andres.  You  have 
little  reason  for  using  it — after  what  I  have  done  to 
you — and  am  doing." 

"Oh,  but  you  see,  I  know  that  you  are  forced  to  do 
what  you  are  doing.  You  are  a  gentleman,  Mr. 
Marston.  Won't  you  please  come  in  and  sleep  by  the 
fire  ?  You  will  be  so  uncomfortable  out  there.  And 
you  have  had  such  a  hard  day." 

405 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOKLD 

"God  bless  you,  for  your  good  heart,  Miss  Andres," 
the  man  said  brokenly.  "But  I  will  not  intrude  upon 
your  privacy  to-night.  Don't  you  see,"  he  added  sav- 
agely, "don't  you  see  that  I — I  can't  ?  Bar  your  door, 
please,  and  let  me  play  the  part  assigned  to  me.  Your 
kindness  to  me,  your  confidence  in  me,  is  wasted." 

He  turned  abruptly  away  and  disappeared  in  the 
darkness. 


406 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 
WHAT  SHOULD  HE  DO 

HE  next  morning,  it  was  evident  to  Sibyl 
Andres  that  the  man  who  said  his  name 
was  Henry  Marston  had  not  slept. 

All  that  day,  she  watched  the  battle — 
saw  him  fighting  with  himself.  He  kept 
apart  from  her,  and  spoke  but  little. 
When  night  came,  as  soon  as  supper  was  over,  he 
again  left  the  cabin,  to  spend  the  long,  dark  hours  in 
a  struggle  that  the  girl  could  only  dimly  sense.  She 
could  not  understand ;  but  she  felt  him  fighting,  fight- 
ing ;  and  she  knew  that  he  fought  for  her.  What  was 
it  ?  What  terrible  unseen  force  mastered  this  man, — 
compelled  him  to  do  its  bidding, — even  while  he 
hated  and  loathed  himself  for  submitting? 

Watchful,  ready,  hoping,  despairing,  the  helpless 
girl  could  only  pray  that  her  companion  might  be 
given  strength. 

The  following  morning,  at  breakfast,  he  told  her 
that  he  must  go  to  Granite  Peak  to  signal.  His 
orders  were  to  lock  her  in  the  cabin,  and  to  go  alone ; 
but  he  would  not.  She  might  go  with  him,  if  she 
chose. 

Even  this  crumb  of  encouragement — that  he  would 
so  far  disobey  his  master — filled  the  girl's  heart  with 
hope.  "I  would  love  to  go  with  you,  Mr.  Marston," 

407 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

she  said,  "but  if  it  is  going  to  make  trouble  for  you, 
I  would  rather  stay." 

"You  mean  that  you  would  rather  be  locked  up  in 
the  cabin  all  day,  than  to  make  trouble  for  me?"  he 
asked. 

"It  wouldn't  be  so  terrible,"  she  answered,  "and  I 
would  like  to  do  something — something  to — to  show 
you  that  I  appreciate  your  kindness  to  me.  There's 
nothing  else  I  can  do,  is  there  ?" 

The  man  looked  at  her  wonderingly.  It  was  im- 
possible to  doubt  her  sincerity.  And  Sibyl,  as  she 
saw  his  face,  knew  that  she  had  never  before  wit- 
nessed such  mental  and  spiritual  anguish.  The  eyes 
that  looked  into  hers  so  questioningly,  so  pleadingly, 
were  the  eyes  of  a  soul  in  torment.  Her  own  eyes 
filled  with  tears  that  she  could  not  hide,  and  she 
turned  away. 

At  last  he  said  slowly,  "~No,  Miss  Andres,  you  shall 
not  stay  in  the  cabin  to-day.  Come;  we  must  go  on, 
or  I  shall  be  late." 

At  Granite  Peak,  Sibyl  watched  the  signal  flashes 
from  distant  Fairlands — the  flashes  that  Aaron  King 
was  watching,  from  the  peak  where  they  had  sat  to- 
gether that  day  of  their  last  climb.  As  the  man 
answered  the  signals  with  his  mirror,  and  the  girl 
beside  him  watched,  the  artist  was  training  his  glass 
upon  the  spot  where  they  stood;  but,  partially  con- 
cealed as  they  were,  the  distance  was  too  great. 

When  Sibyl's  captor  turned,  after  receiving  the 
message  conveyed  by  the  flashes  of  light,  his  face  was 
terrible  to  see;  and  the  girl,  without  asking,  knew 


408 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

that  the  crisis  was  drawing  near.  Deadly  feai- 
gripped  her  heart;  but  she  was  strangely  calm.  On 
the  way  back  to  the  cabin,  the  man  scarcely  spoke, 
but  walked  with  bent  head ;  and  the  girl  felt  him 
fighting,  fighting.  She  longed  to  cry  out,  to  plead 
with  him,  to  demand  that  he  tell  her  why  he  must  do 
this  thing;  but  she  dared  not.  She  knew,  instinc- 
tively, that  he  must  fight  alone.  So  she  watched  and 
waited  and  prayed.  As  they  were  crossing  the  face 
of  the  canyon  wall,  on  the  narrow  ledge,  the  man 
stopped  and,  as  though  forgetting  the  girl's  presence, 
stood  looking  moodily  down  into  the  depths  below. 
Then  they  went  on.  That  night,  he  did  not  leave  the 
cabin  as  soon  as  they  had  finished  their  evening  meal, 
but  sat  on  one  of  the  rude  seats  with  which  the  little 
hut  was  furnished,  gazing  into  the  fire. 

The  girl's  heart  beat  quicker,  as  he  said,  "Miss 
Andres,  I  would  like  to  ask  your  opinion  in  a  matter 
that  I  cannot  decide  satisfactorily  to  myself." 

She  took  the  seat  on  the  other  side  of  the  rude  fire- 
place. 

"What  is  it,  Mr.  Marston?" 

"I  will  put  it  in  the  form  of  a  story,"  Jie  answered. 
Then,  after  a  wait  of  some  minutes,  as  though  he 
found  it  hard  to  begin,  he  said,  "It  is  an  old  story, 
Miss  Andres ;  a  very  common  one,  but  with  a  differ- 
ence. A  young  man,  with  every  chance  in  the  world 
to  go  right,  went  wrong.  He  was  well-born.  He  was 
fairly  well  educated.  His  father  was  a  man  of  influ- 
ence and  considerable  means.  He  had  many  friends, 
good  and  bad.  I  do  not  think  the  man  was  intention- 


409 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOELD 

ally  bad,  but  I  do  not  excuse  him.  He  was  a  fool — 
that's  all — a  fool.  And,  as  fools  must,  he  paid  the 
price  of  his  foolishness. 

"A  sentence  of  thirty  years  in  the  penitentiary  is 
a  big  price  for  a  young  man  to  pay  for  being  a  fool, 
Miss  Andres.  He  was  twenty-five  when  he  went  in — 
strong  and  vigorous,  with  a  good  mind ;  the  prospects 
of  thirty  years  of  prison  life — but  that's  not  the  story. 
I  could  not  hope  to  make  you  understand  what  a 
thirty  years  sentence  to  the  penitentiary  means  to  a 
man  of  twenty-five.  But,  at  least,  you  will  not  won- 
der that  the  man  watched  for  an  opportunity  to 
escape.  He  prayed  for  an  opportunity.  For  ten 
years, — ten  years, — Miss  Andres,  the  man  watched 
and  prayed  for  a  chance  to  escape.  Then  he  got 
away. 

"He  was  never  a  criminal  at  heart,  you  must  under- 
stand. He  had  no  wish,  now,  to  live  a  life  of  crime. 
He  wished  only  to  live  a  sane,  orderly,  useful,  life  of 
freedom.  They  hunted  him  to  the  mountains.  They 
could  not  take  him,  but  they  made  it  impossible  for 
him  to  escape — he  was  starving — dying.  He  would 
not  give  himself  up  to  the  twenty  years  of  hell  that 
waited  him.  He  did  not  want  to  die — but  he  would 
die  rather  than  go  back. 

"Then,  one  day,  when  he  was  very  near  the  end,  a 
man  found  him.  The  poor  hunted  devil  of  a  convict 
aroused  his  pity.  He  offered  help.  He  gave  the 
wretched,  starving  creature  food.  He  arranged  to 
furnish  him  with  supplies,  until  it  would  be  safe  for 
him  to  leave  his  hiding  place.  He  brought  him  food 
and  clothing  and  books.  Later,  when  the  convict's 

410 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

prison  pallor  was  gone,  when  his  hair  and  beard  were 
grown,  and  the  prison  manner  and  walk  were,  in  some 
measure,  forgotten;  when  the  officers,  thinking  that 
he  had  perished  in  the  mountains,  had  given  up  look- 
ins:  for  him;  his  benefactor  gave  him  work — beauti- 
fux  work  in  the  orange  groves — where  he  was  safe 
and  happy  and  useful  and  could  feel  himself  a  man. 

"Do  you  wonder,  Miss  Andres,  that  the  man  was 
grateful?  Do  you  wonder  that  he  worshipped  his 
benefactor — that  he  looked  upon  his  friend  as  upon 
his  savior?" 

"No,"  said  the  girl,  "I  do  not  wonder.  It  was  a 
beautiful  thing  to  do — to  help  the  poor  fellow  who 
wanted  to  do  right.  I  do  not  wonder  that  the  man 
who  had  escaped,  loved  his  friend." 

"But  listen,"  said  the  other,  "when  the  convict  was 
beginning  to  feel  safe ;  when  he  saw  that  he  was  out  of 
danger ;  when  he  was  living  an  honorable,  happy  life, 
instead  of  spending  his  days  in  the  hell  they  call 
prison;  when  he  was  looking  forward  to  years  of 
happiness  instead  of  to  years  of  torment;  then  his 
benefactor  came  to  him  suddenly,  one  day,  and  said, 
'Unless  you  do  what  I  tell  you,  now — unless  you  help 
me  to  something  that  I  want,  I  will  send  you  back 
to  prison.  Do  as  I  say,  and  your  life  shall  go  on  as 
it  is — as  you  have  planned.  Refuse,  and  I  will  turn 
you  over  to  the  officers,  and  you  will  go  back  to  your 
hell  for  the  remainder  of  your  life.' 

"Do  you  wonder,  Miss  Andres,  that  the  convict 
obeyed  his  master?" 

The  girl's  face  was  white  with  despair,  but  she  did 
not  lose  her  self-control.  She  answered  the  man, 

411 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOELD 

thoughtfully — as  though  they  were  discussing  some 
situation  in  which  neither  had  a  vital  interest.  "I 
think,  Mr.  Marston,"  she  said,  "that  it  would  depend 
upon  what  it  was  that  the  man  wanted  the  convict  to 
do.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  can  imagine  the  convict 
being  happier  in  prison,  knowing  that  he  had  not 
done  what  the  man  wanted,  than  he  would  be,  free, 
remembering  what  he  had  done  to  gain  his  freedom. 
What  was  it  the  man  wanted  ?" 

Breathlessly,  Sibyl  waited  the  answer. 

The  man  on  the  other  side  of  the  fire  did  not  speak. 

At  last,  in  a  voice  hoarse  with  emotion,  Henry 
Marston  said,  "Freedom  and  a  life  of  honorable  use- 
fulness, purchased  at  a  price,  or  hell,  with  only  the 
memory  of  a  good  deed — which  should  the  man 
choose,  Miss  Andres  ?" 

"I  think,"  she  replied,  "that  you  should  tell  me,, 
plainly,  what  it  was  that  the  man  wanted  the  convict 
to  do." 

"I  will  go  on  with  the  story,"  said  the  other. 

"The  convict's  benefactor — or,  perhaps  I  should 
say,  master — loved  a  woman  who  refused  to  listen  to 
him.  The  girl,  for  some  reason,  left  home,  very  sud- 
denly and  unexpectedly  to  any  one.  She  left  a  hur- 
ried note,  saying,  only,  that  she  was  going  away.  By 
accident,  the  man  found  the  note  and  saw  his  oppor- 
tunity. He  guessed  that  the  girl  would  go  to  friends 
in  the  mountains.  He  saw  that  if  he  could  intercept 
her,  and  keep  her  hidden,  no  one  would  know  what 
had  become  of  her.  He  believed  that  she  would 
marry  him  rather  than  face  the  world  after  spending 
so  many  days  with  him  alone,  because  her  manner  of 

412 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

leaving  home  would  lend  color  to  the  story  that  she 
had  gone  with  him.  Their  marriage  would  save  her 
good  name.  He  wanted  the  man  whom  he  could  send 
back  to  prison  to  help  him. 

"The  convict  had  known  his  benefactor's  kindness 
of  heart,  you  must  remember,  Miss  Andres.  He  knew 
that  this  man  was  able  to  give  his  wife  everything 
that  seems  desirable  in  life — that  thousands  of  women 
would  have  been  glad  to  marry  him.  The  man  as- 
sured the  convict  that  he  desired  only  to  make  the  girl 
his  wife  before  all  the  world.  He  agreed  that  she 
should  remain  under  the  convict's  protection  until 
she  was  his  wife,  and  that  the  convict  should,  himself, 
witness  the  ceremony."  The  man  paused. 

When  the  girl  did  not  speak,  he  said  again,  "Do 
you  wonder,  Miss  Andres,  that  the  convict  obeyed 
his  master?" 

"No,"  said  the  girl,  softly,  "I  do  not  wonder.  But, 
Mr.  Marston,"  she  continued,  hesitatingly,  "what  do 
you  think  the  convict  in  your  story  would  have  done 
if  the  man  had  not — if  he  had  not  wanted  to  marry 
the  girl  ?" 

"I  know  what  he  would  have  done  in  that  case,"  the 
other  answered  with  conviction.  "He  would  have 
gone  back  to  his  twenty  years  of  hell.  He  would  have 
gone  back  to  fifty  years  of  hell,  if  need  be,  rather  than 
buy  his  freedom  at  such  a  price." 

The  girl  leaned  forward,  eagerly ;  "And  suppose — 
suppose — that  after  the  convict  had  done  his  master's 
bidding— suppose  that  after  he  had  taken  the  girl 
away  from  her  friends — suppose,  then,  the  man 
would  not  marry  her  ?" 

413 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

For  a  moment  there  was  no  sound  in  the  little 
room,  save  the  crackling  of  the  fire  in  the  fire-place, 
and  the  sound  of  a  stick  that  had  burned  in  two,  fall- 
ing in  the  ashes. 

"What  would  the  convict  do  if  the  man  would  not 
marry  the  girl?"  persisted  Sibyl. 

Her  companion  spoke  with  the  solemnity  of  a  judge 
passing  sentence;  "If  the  man  violated  his  word — if 
he  lied  to  the  convict — if  his  purpose  toward  the  girl 
was  anything  less  than  an  honorable  marriage — if  he 
refused  to  keep  his  promise  after  the  convict  had  done 
his  part — he  would  die,  Miss  Andres.  The  convict 
would  kill  his  benefactor — as  surely  as  there  is  a  just 
God  who,  alone,  can  say  what  is  right  and  what  is 
wrong." 

The  girl  uttered  a  low  cry. 

The  man  did  not  seem  to  notice.  "But  the  man 
will  do  as  he  promised,  Miss  Andres.  He  wishes  to 
make  the  girl  his  wife.  He  can  give  her  all  that 
women,  these  days,  seem  to  desire  in  marriage.  In 
the  eyes  of  the  world,  she  would  be  envied  by  thou- 
sands. And  the  convict  would  gain  freedom  and  the 
right  to  live  an  honorable  life — the  right  to  earn  his 
bread  by  doing  an  honest  man's  work.  Freedom  and 
a  life  of  honorable  service,  at  the  price ;  or  hell,  with 
only  the  memory  of  a  good  deed — which  should  he 
choose,  Miss  Andres?  The  convict  is  past  deciding 
for  himself." 

The  troubled  answer  came  out  of  the  honesty  of 
the  girl's  heart ;  "Mr.  Marston,  I  do  not  know." 

A  moment,  the  man  on  the  other  side  of  the  fire- 
place waited.  Then,  rising,  he  quietly  left  the  cabin. 

414 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

The  girl  did  not  know  that  he  was  gone,  until  she 
heard  the  door  close. 


In  that  log  hut,  hidden  in  the  deep  gorge,  in  the 
wild  Cold  Water  country,  Sibyl  Andres  sat  before 
the  dying  fire,  waiting  for  the  dawn.  On  a  high, 
wind-swept  ledge  in  the  Galena  mountains,  Aaron 
King  grimly  walked  his  weary  beat.  In  Clear  Creek 
Canyon,  Myra  Willard  and  Conrad  Lagrange  waited, 
and  Brian  Oakley  planned  for  the  morrow.  Over  in 
the  Galena  Valley,  an  automobile  from  Fairlands 
stopped  at  the  mouth  of  a  canyon  leading  toward 
Granite  Peak.  Somewhere,  in  the  darkness  of  the 
night,  a  man  strove  to  know  right  from  wrong. 


415 


CHAPTEE  XXXVII 

THE  MAN  WAS  INSANE 

EITHER  Sibyl  Andres  nor  her  companion, 
the  next  morning,  reopened  their  conversa- 
tion of  the  night  before.  Each  was 
preoccupied  and  silent,  with  troubled 
thoughts  that  might  not  be  spoken. 

Often,  as  the  forenoon  passed,  Sibyl 
saw  the  man  listening,  as  though  for  a  step  on  the 
mountainside  above.  She  knew,  without  being  told, 
that  the  convict  was  expecting  his  master.  It  was, 
perhaps,  ten  o'clock,  when  they  heard  a  sound  that 
told  them  some  one  was  approaching. 

The  man  caught  up  his  rifle  and  slipped  a  round 
of  cartridges  into  the  magazine;  saying  to  the  girl, 
"Go  into  the  cabin  and  bar  the  door ;  quick,  do  as  I 
say !  Don't  come  out  until  I  call  you." 

She  obeyed ;  and  the  convict,  himself,  rifle  in  hand, 
disappeared  in  the  heavy  underbrush. 

A  few  minutes  later,  James  Rutlidge  parted  the 
bushes  and  stepped  into  the  little  open  space  in  front 
of  the  cabin.  The  convict  reappeared,  his  rifle  under 
his  arm. 

The  new-comer  greeted  the  man  whom  Sibyl  knew 
as  Henry  Marston,  with,  "Hello,  George,  everything 
all  right?  Where  is  she?" 

"Miss  Andres  is  in  the  cabin.    When  I  heard  you 

416 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOKLD 

coming,  I  asked  her  to  go  inside,  and  took  cover  in 
the  brush,  myself,  until  I  knew  for  sure  that  it  was 
you." 

Rutlidge  laughed.  "You  are  all  right,  George. 
But  you  needn't  worry.  Everything  is  as  peaceful  as 
a  graveyard.  They've  found  the  horse,  and  they 
think  now  that  the  girl  killed  herself,  or  met  with  an 
accident  while  wandering  around  the  hills  in  a  state 
of  mental  aberration." 

"You  left  the  supplies  at  the  same  old  place,  I 
suppose  ?"  said  the  convict. 

"Yes,  I  brought  what  I  could,"  Rutlidge  indicated 
a  pack  which  he  had  slipped  from  his  shoulder  as  he 
was  talking.  "You  better  hike  over  there  and  bring 
in  the  rest  to-night.  If  you  leave  at  once,  you  will 
make  it  back  by  noon,  to-morrow." 

The  girl  in  the  cabin,  listening,  heard  every  word 
and  trembled  with  fear.  The  convict  spoke  again. 

"What  are  your  plans,  Mr.  Rutlidge  ?" 

"Never  mind  my  plans,  now.  They  can  wait  until 
you  get  back.  You  must  start  at  once.  You  say  Miss 
Andres  is  in  the  cabin  ?"  He  turned  toward  the  door. 

But  the  other  said,  shortly,  "Wait  a  minute,  sir. 
I  have  a  word  to  say,  before  I  go." 

"Well,  out  with  it." 

"You  are  not  going  to  forget  your  promise  to  me  ?" 

"Certainly  not,  George.     You  are  safe." 

"'I  mean  regarding  Miss  Andres." 

"Oh,  of  course  not !    Why,  what's  the  matter  ?" 

"Nothing,  only  she  is  in  my  care  until  she  is  your 
wife." 

James  Rutlidge  laughed.     "I  will  take  good  care 

417 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOULD 

of  her  until  you  get  back.  You  need  have  no  fear. 
You're  not  doubting  my  word,  are  you  ?" 

"If  I  doubted  your  word,  I  would  take  Miss  An- 
dres with  me,"  answered  the  convict,  simply. 

James  Eutlidge  looked  at  him,  curiously ;  "Oh,  you 
would?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I  would;  and  I  think  I  should  tell  you, 
too,  that  if  you  should  forget  your  promise — " 

"Well,  what  would  you  do  if  I  should  forget  ?" 

The  answer  came  deliberately ;  "If  you  do  not  keep 
your  promise  I  will  kill  you,  Mr.  Rutlidge." 

James  Rutlidge  did  not  reply. 

Stepping  to  the  cabin  door,  the  convict  knocked. 

Sibyl's  voice  answered,  "Yes  ?" 

"You  may  come  out  now,  please,  Miss  Andres." 

As  the  girl  opened  the  door,  she  spoke  to  him  in  a 
low  tone.  "Thank  you,  Mr.  Marston.  I  heard." 

"I  meant  you  to  hear,"  he  returned  in  a  whisper. 
"Do  not  be  afraid."  In  a  louder  tone  he  continued. 
"I  must  go  for  supplies,  Miss  Andres.  I  will  be 
back  to-morrow  noon." 

He  stepped  around  the  corner  of  the  cabin,  and 
was  gone. 

Sibyl  Andres  faced  James  Rutlidge,  without  speak- 
ing. She  was  not  afraid,  now,  as  she  had  always  been 
in  his  presence,  until  that  day  when  he  had  so  plainly 
declared  himself  to  her  and  she  met  his  advances 
with  a  gun.  The  convict's  warning  to  the  man  who 
could  send  him  back  to  prison  for  practically  the  re- 
maining years  of  his  life,  had  served  its  purpose 
in  giving  her  courage.  She  did  not  believe  that,  for 


418 


,...-. 


Still  she  did  not  speak 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

the  present,  Rutlidge  would  dare  to  do  otherwise  than 
heed  the  warning: 

James  Rutlidge  regarded  her  with  a  smile  of  tri- 
umphant satisfaction.  "Really,"  he  said,  at  last, 
"you  do  not  seem  at  all  glad  to  see  me." 

She  made  no  reply. 

"I  am  frightfully  hungry" — he  continued,  with  a 
short  laugh,  mov:'ng  toward  her  as  she  stood  in  the 
door  of  the  cabin — "I've  been  walking  since  mid- 
night. I  was  in  such  a  hurry  to  get  here  that  I  didn't 
even  stop  for  breakfast." 

She  stepped  out,  and  moved  away  from  the  door. 

With  another  laugh,  he  entered  the  cabin. 

Presently,  when  he  had  helped  himself  to  food,  he 
went  back  to  the  girl  who  had  seated  herself  on  a  log, 
at  the  farther  side  of  the  little  clearing.  "You  seem 
fairly  comfortable  here,"  he  said. 

She  did  not  speak. 

"You  and  my  man  get  along  nicely,  I  take  it.  He 
has  been  kind  to  you  ?" 

Still  she  did  not  speak. 

He  spoke  sharply,  "Look  here,  my  girl,  you  can't 
keep  this  up,  you  know.  Say  what  you  have  to  say, 
and  let's  get  it  over." 

All  the  time,  she  had  been  regarding  him  intently 
— her  wide,  blue  eyes  filled  with  wondering  pain. 
"How  could  you  ?"  she  said  at  last.  "Oh,  how  could 
you  do  such  a  thing  ?" 

His  face  flushed.  "I  did  it  because  you  have 
driven  me  mad,  I  guess.  From  the  first  time  I  saw 
you,  I  have  wanted  you.  I  have  tried  again  and 


419 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOULD 

again,  in  the  last  three  years,  to  approach  you;  but 
you  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  me.  The  more 
you  spurned  me,  the  more  I  wanted  you.  Then  this 
man,  King,  came.  You  were  friendly  enough,  with 
him.  It  made  me  wild.  From  that  day  when  I  met 
you  in  the  mountains  above  Lone  Cabin,  I  have  been 
ready  for  anything.  I  determined  if  I  could  not  win 
you  by  fair  means,  I  would  take  you  in  any  way  I 
could.  When  my  opportunity  came,  I  took  advantage 
of  it.  I've  got  you.  The  story  is  already  started  that 
you  were  the  painter's  mistress,  and  that  you  have 
committed  suicide.  You  shall  stay  here,  a  while, 
until  the  belief  that  you  are  dead  has  become  a  cer- 
tainty; then  you  will  go  East  with  me." 

"But  you  cannot  do  a  thing  so  horrible !"  she  ex- 
claimed. "I  would  tell  my  story  to  the  first  people 
we  met." 

He  laughed  grimly,  as  he  retorted  with  brutal 
meaning,  "You  do  not  seem  to  understand.  You  will 
be  glad  enough  to  keep  the  story  a  secret — when  the 
time  comes  to  go." 

Bewildered  by  fear  and  shame,  the  girl  could  only 
stammer,  "How  could  you — oh  how  could  you !  Why, 
why—" 

"Why!"  he  echoed.  Then,  as  he  went  a  step  to- 
ward her,  he  exclaimed,  with  reckless  profanity,  "Ask 
the  God  who  made  me  what  I  am,  why  I  want  you ! 
Ask  the  God  who  made  you  so  beautiful,  why !" 

He  moved  another  step  toward  her,  his  face  flushed 
with  the  insane  passion  that  mastered  him,  his  eyes 
burning  with  the  reckless  light  of  one  past  counting 


420 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOULD 

the  cost;  and  the  girl,  seeing,  sprang  to  her  feet,  in 
terror.  Wheeling  suddenly,  she  ran  into  the  cabin, 
thinking  to  shut  and  bar  the  door.  She  reached  the 
door,  and  swung  it  shut,  but  the  bar  was  gone.  While 
he  was  in  the  cabin  he  had  placed  it  out  of  her  reach. 
Putting  his  shoulder  to  the  door,  the  man  easily 
forced  it  open  against  her  lighter  weight.  As  he 
crossed  the  threshold,  she  sprang  to  the  farthest 
corner  of  the  little  room,  and  cowered,  trembling — 
too  shaken  with  horror  to  cry  out.  A  moment  he 
paused ;  then  started  toward  her. 

At  that  instant,  the  convict  burst  through  the 
underbrush  into  the  little  opening. 

Hearing  the  sound,  Rutlidge  wheeled  and  sprang 
to  the  open  door. 

The  convict  was  breathing  heavily  from  the  exer- 
tion of  a  hard  run. 

"What  are  you  doing  here  ?"  demanded  Rutlidge, 
sharply.  "What's  the  matter  ?" 

"Some  one  is  following  my  trail  down  from  Granite 
Peak." 

"Well,  what  are  you  carrying  that  rifle  for  ?"  said 
Rutlidge,  harshly,  with  an  oath. 

"There  may  be  others  near  enough  to  hear  a  shot," 
answered  the  convict.  "Besides,  Mr.  Rutlidge,  this  is 
your  part  of  the  game — not  mine.  I  did  not  agree 
to  commit  murder  for  you." 

"Where  did  you  see  him  ?" 

"A  half  mile  beyond  the  head  of  the  gulch,  where 
we  turn  off  to  go  to  the  supply  point." 

Rutlidge,  rifle  in  hand,  stepped  from  the  house. 


421 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

"You  stay  here  and  take  care  of  the  girl — and  see  that 
she  doesn't  scream."  With  the  last  word  he  set  out 
at  a  run. 

The  convict  sprang  into  the  cabin,  where  Sibyl  still 
crouched  in  the  corner.  The  man's  voice  was  im- 
ploring, as  he  said,  "Miss  Andres,  Miss  Andres,  what 
is  the  matter  ?  Did  he  touch  you  ?  Tell  me,  did  he 
harm  you?" 

Sobbing,  the  girl  held  out  her  hands,  and  he  lifted 
her  to  her  feet.  "You — you  came — just  in  time,  Mr. 
Marston." 

An  instant  he  stood  there,  then  muttering  some- 
thing under  his  breath,  he  turned,  caught  up  his  rifle, 
and  started  toward  the  door. 

But,  as  he  reached  the  threshold,  she  cried  out, 
"Mr.  Marston,  don't,  don't  leave  me  again." 

The  convict  stopped,  hesitated,  then  he  said  sol- 
emnly, "Miss  Andres,  can  you  pray?  I  know  you 
can.  You  are  a  good  girl.  If  God  can  hear  a  prayer 
he  will  surely  hear  you.  Come  with  me.  Come — 
and  pray  girl — pray  for  me." 


The  most  charitable  construction  that  can  be  put 
upon  the  action  of  James  Rutlidge,  just  related,  is  to 
accept  the  explanation  of  his  conduct  that  he,  him- 
self, made  to  Sibyl.  The  man  was  insane — as  Mr. 
Taine  was  insane — as  Mrs.  Taine  was  insane. 

What  else  can  be  said  of  a  class  of  people  who,  in 
an  age  wedded  to  materialism,  demand  of  their  art- 
ists, not  that  they  shall  set  before  them  ideals  of 
truth  and  purity  and  beauty,  but  that  they  shall  feed 

422 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

their  diseased  minds  with  thoughts  of  lust  and  stimu- 
late their  abnormal  passions  with  lascivious 
imaginings?  Can  a  class — whatever  its  pretense  to 
culture  may  be — can  a  class,  that,  in  story  and  picture 
and  music  and  play,  counts  greatest  in  art  those  who 
most  effectively  arouse  the  basest  passions  of  which 
the  human  being  is  capable,  be  rightly  judged  sane  ? 

James  Rutlidge  was  bred,  born,  and  reared  in  an 
atmosphere  that  does  not  tolerate  purity  of  thought. 
It  was  literally  impossible  for  him  to  think  sanely  of 
the  holiest,  most  sacred,  most  fundamental  facts  of 
life.  Education,  culture,  art,  literature, — all  that  is 
commonly  supposed  to  lift  man  above  the  level  of  the 
beasts, — are  used  by  men  and  women  of  his  kind  to 
so  pervert  their  own  natures  that  they  are  able  to 
descend  to  bestial  depths  that  the  dumb  animals  them- 
selves are  not  capable  of  reaching.  In  what  he  called 
his  love  for  Sibyl  Andres,  James  Rutlidge  was  insane 
— but  no  more  so  than  thousands  of  others.  The 
methods  of  securing  the  objects  of  their  desires  vary 
— the  motive  that  prompts  is  the  same — the  end 
sought  is  identical. 

As  he  hurriedly  climbed  the  mountainside,  out  of 
the  deep  gorge  that  hid  the  cabin,  the  man's  mind 
was  in  a  whirl  of  emotions — rage  at  being  interrupted 
at  the  moment  of  his  triumph;  dread  lest  the 
approaching  one  should  be  accompanied  by  others, 
and  the  girl  be  taken  from  him ;  fear  that  the  convict 
would  prove  troublesome,  even  should  the  more  imme- 
diate danger  be  averted ;  anger  at  himself  for  being 
so  blindly  precipitous;  and  a  maddening  indecision 
as  to  how  he  should  check  the  man  who  was  following 

423 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

the  tracks  that  led  .from  Granite  Peak  to  the  evident 
object  of  his  search.  The  words  of  the  convict  rang 
in  his  ears.  "This  is  your  job.  I  did  not  agree  to 
commit  murder  for  you." 

Murder  had  no  place  in  the  insanity  of  James  Rut- 
lidge.  To  destroy  innocence,  to  kill  virtue,  to  murder 
a  soul — these  are  commonplaces  in  the  insane  philoso- 
phy of  his  kind.  But  to  kill — to  take  a  life  delib- 
erately— the  thought  was  abhorrent  to  him.  He  was 
not  educated  to  the  thought  of  taking  life — he  was 
trained  to  consider  its  perversion.  The  heroes  in 
his  fiction  did  not  kill  men — they  betrayed  women. 
The  heroines  in  his  stories  did  not  desire  the  death  of 
their  betrayers — they  loved  them,  and  deserted  their 
husbands  for  them. 

But  to  stand  idly  aside  and  permit  Sibyl  Andres 
to  be  taken  from  him — to  face  the  exposure  that 
would  inevitably  follow — was  impossible.  If  the 
man  who  had  struck  the  trail  was  alone,  there  might 
still  be  a  chance — if  he  could  be  stopped.  But  how 
could  he  check  him  ?  What  could  he  do  ?  A  rifle-shot 
might  bring  a  dozen  searchers. 

While  these  thoughts  were  seething  in  his  hot 
brain,  he  was  climbing  rapidly  toward  the  cliff  at  the 
head  of  the  gorge,  across  which,  he  knew,  the  man 
who  was  following  the  tracks  that  led  to  the  cabin 
below,  must  come. 

Gaining  the  end  of  the  ledge  that  leads  across  the 
face  of  that  mighty  wall  of  rock,  less  than  a  hundred 
feet  to  the  other  side,  he  stopped.  There  was  no  one 
in  sight.  Looking  down,  he  saw,  a  thousand  feet  be- 
low, the  tops  of  the  trees  in  the  bottom  of  the  gorge. 

424 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

Lifting  his  head,  he  looked  carefully  about,  searching 
the  mountainsides  that  slope  steeply  back  from  the 
rim  of  the  narrow  canyon.  He  looked  up  at  the 
frowning  cliff  that  towered  a  thousand  feet  above  his 
head.  He  listened.  He  was  thinking,  thinking.  The 
best  of  him  and  the  worst  of  him  struggled  for 
supremacy. 

A  sound  on  the  mountainside,  above  the  gorge,  and 
beyond  the  other  end  of  the  ledge,  caught  his  ear. 
With  a  quick  step  he  moved  behind  a  projecting 
corner  of  the  cliff.  Rifle  in  hand,  he  waited. 


425 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 
AN  INEVITABLE  CONFLICT 

HEN  Aaron  King  set  out  to  follow  the 
tracks  he  had  found  at  Granite  Peak, 
after  his  long,  hard  trip  along  the  rugged 
crest  of  the  Galenas,  his  weariness  was 
forgotten.  Eagerly,  as  if  fresh  and  strong, 
but  with  careful  eyes  and  every  sense 
keenly  alert,  he  went  forward  on  the  trail  that  he 
knew  must  lead  him  to  Sibyl  Andres. 

He  did  not  attempt  to  solve  the  problem  of  how 
the  girl  came  there,  nor  did  he  pause  to  wonder  about 
her  companion.  He  did  not  even  ask  himself  if 
Sibyl  were  living  or  dead.  He  thought  of  nothing;, 
knew  nothing;  was  conscious  of  nothing;  but  the 
trail  that  led  away  into  the  depths  of  the  mountain 
wilderness.  Insensible  to  his  own  physical  condition ; 
without  food;  unacquainted  with  the  wild  country 
into  which  he  was  going;  reckless  of  danger  to  him- 
self; but  with  all  possible  care  and  caution  for  the 
sake  of  the  girl  he  loved,  he  went  on. 

Coming  to  the  brink  of  the  gorge  in  which  the 
cabin  was  hidden,  the  trail,  following  the  rim,  soon 
led  him  to  the  ledge  that  lay  across  the  face  of  the 
cliff  at  the  head  of  the  narrow  canyon.  A  moment, 
he  paused,  to  search  the  vicinity  with  careful  eyes, 
then  started  to  cross.  As  he  set  foot  upon  the  ledge, 
a  voice  at  the  other  end  called  sharply,  "Stop." 

426 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

At  the  word,  Aaron  King  halted. 

A  moment  passed.  James  Rutlidge  stepped  from 
behind  the  rocks  at  the  other  end  of  the  ledge.  He 
was  covering  the  artist  with  a  rifle. 

In  a  flash,  the  man  on  the  trail  understood.  The 
automobile,  the  mirror  signals  from  Fairlands — it 
was  all  explained  by  the  presence  and  by  the  menac- 
ing attitude  of  the  man  who  barred  his  way.  The 
artist's  hand  moved  toward  the  weapon  that  hung  at 
his  hip. 

"Don't  do  that,"  said  the  man  with  the  rifle.  "I 
can't  murder  you  in  cold  blood;  but  if  you  attempt 
to  draw  your  gun,  I'll  fire." 

The  other  stood  still. 

James  Rutlidge  spoke  again,  his  voice  hoarse  with 
emotion;  "Listen  to  me,  King.  It's  useless  for  me 
to  deny  what  brought  me  here.  The  trail  you  are 
following  leads  to  Sibyl  Andres.  You  had  her  all 
summer.  I've  got  her  now.  If  you  hadn't  stumbled 
onto  the  trail  up  there,  I  would  have  taken  her  out 
of  the  country,  and  you  would  never  have  seen  her 
again.  I  might  have  killed  you  before  you  saw  me, 
but  I  couldn't.  I'm  not  that  kind.  Under  the  cir- 
cumstances, there  is  no  possible  compromise.  I'll 
give  you  a  fighting  chance  for  your  life  and  the  girl. 
I'll  take  a  fighting  chance  for  my  life  and  the  girl. 
Throw  your  gun  out  of  reach  and  I'll  leave  mine  here. 
We'll  meet  on  the  ledge  there." 

James  Rutlidge  was  no  coward.  Mr.  Taine,  also, 
— it  will  be  remembered, — on  the  night  of  his  death, 
boasted  that  he  was  game. 

Without  an  instant's  hesitation,  Aaron  King  un- 

427 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

buckled  the  belt  that  held  his  weapon  and,  turning, 
tossed  it  behind  him,  with  the  gun  still  in  its  holster. 
At  the  other  end  of  the  ledge,  James  Eutlidge  set  his 
rifle  behind  the  rock. 

Deliberately,  the  two  men  removed  their  coats  and 
threw  aside  their  hats.  For  a  moment  they  stood 
eyeing  each  other.  Into  Aaron  King's  mind  flashed 
the  memory  of  that  scene  at  the  Fairlands  depot, 
when,  moved  by  the  distress  of  the  woman  with  the 
disfigured  face,  he  had  first  spoken  to  the  man  who 
faced  him  now.  With  startling  vividness,  the  inci- 
dents of  their  acquaintance  came  to  him  in  flash-like 
succession — the  day  that  Rutlidge  had  met  Sibyl  in 
the  studio ;  the  time  of  his  visit  to  the  camp  in  the 
sycamore  grove;  the  night  of  the  Taine  banquet — a 
hundred  things  that  had  strengthened  the  feeling  of 
antagonism  which  had  marked  their  first  meeting. 
And,  through  it  all,  he  seemed  to  hear  Conrad  La- 
grange  saying  that  in  his  story  of  life  this  character's 
name  was  "Sensual."  The  artist,  in  that  instant, 
knew  that  this  meeting  was  inevitable. 

It  was  only  for  a  moment  that  the  two  men — who 
in  their  lives  and  characters  represented  forces  so 
antagonistic — stood  regarding  each  other,  each  know- 
ing that  the  duel  would  be — must  be — to  the  death. 
Deliberately,  they  started  toward  the  center  of  the 
ledge.  Over  their  heads  towered  the  great  cliff.  A 
thousand  feet  below  were  the  tops  of  the  trees  in  the 
bottom  of  the  gorge.  About  them,  on  every  hand,  the 
silent,  mighty  hills  watched — the  wild  and  lonely 
wilderness  waited. 

As  they  drew  closer  together,  they  moved,  as  wres- 

428 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

tiers,  warily — crouching,  silent,  alert.  Stripped  to 
their  shirts  and  trousers,  they  were  both  splendid 
physical  types.  James  Rutlidge  was  the  heavier,  but 
Aaron  King  made  up  for  his  lack  in  weight  by  a  more 
clean-cut,  muscular  firmness. 

They  grappled.  As  two  primitive  men  in  a  savage 
age  might  have  met,  bare  handed,  they  came  together. 
Locked  in  each  other's  arms,  their  limbs  entwined, 
with  set  faces,  tugging  muscles,  straining  sinews,  and 
taut  nerves  they  struggled.  One  moment  they 
crushed  against  the  rocky  wall  of  the  cliff — the  next, 
and  they  swayed  toward  the  edge  of  the  ledge  and 
hung  over  the  dizzy  precipice.  With  pounding 
hearts,  laboring  breath,  and  clenched  teeth  they 
wrestled. 

James  Rutlidge' s  foot  slipped  on  the  rocky  floor; 
but,  with  a  desperate  effort,  he  regained  his  momen- 
tary loss.  Aaron  King — worn  by  his  days  of  anxiety, 
by  his  sleepless  nights  and  by  the  long  hours  of  toil 
over  the  mountains,  without  sufficient  food  or  rest — 
felt  his  strength  going.  Slowly,  the  weight  and  en- 
durance of  the  heavier  man  told  against  him.  James 
Rutlidge  felt  it,  and  his  eyes  were  beginning  to  blaze 
with  savage  triumph. 

They  were  breathing,  now,  with  hoarse,  sobbing 
gasps,  that  told  of  the  nearness  of  the  finish.  Slowly, 
Aaron  King  weakened.  Rutlidge,  spurred  to  increase 
his  effort,  and  exerting  every  ounce  of  his  strength, 
was  bearing  the  other  downward  and  back. 

At  that  instant,  the  convict  and  Sibyl  Andres 
reached  the  cliff.  With  a  cry  of  horror,  the  girl  stood 

as  though  turned  to  stone. 

\ 

429 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

Motionless,  without  a  word,  the  convict  watched  the 
struggling  men. 

With  a  sob,  the  girl  stretched  forth  her  hands.  In 
a  low  voice  she  called,  "Aaron !  Aaron !  Aaron !" 

The  two  men  on  the  ledge  heard  nothing — saw 
nothing. 

Sibyl  spoke  again,  almost  in  a  whisper,  but  her 
companion  heard.  "Mr.  Marston,  Mr.  Marston,  it  is 
Aaron  King.  I — I  love  him — I — love  him." 

Without  taking  his  eyes  from  the  struggling  men, 
the  convict  answered,  "Pray,  girl;  pray,  pray  for 
me."  As  he  spoke,  he  steadily  raised  his  rifle  to  his 
shoulder. 

Aaron  King  went  down  upon  one  knee.  Rut- 
lidge,  his  legs  braced,  his  body  inclined  toward  the 
edge  of  the  precipice,  was  gathering  his  strength  for 
the  last  triumphant  effort. 

The  convict,  looking  along  his  steady  rifle  barrel, 
was  saying  again,  "Pray,  pray  for  me,  girl."  As  the 
words  left  his  lips,  his  finger  pressed  the  trigger,  and 
the  quiet  of  the  hills  was  broken  by  the  sharp  crack 
of  the  rifle. 

James  Rutlidge's  hold  upon  the  artist  slipped.  For 
a  fraction  of  a  second,  his  form  half  straightened  and 
he  stood  nearly  erect ;  then,  as  a  weed  cut  by  the  sharp 
scythe  of  a  mower  falls,  he  fell ;  his  body  whirling 
downward  toward  the  trees  and  rocks  below.  The 
sound  of  the  crashing  branches  mingled  with  the 
reverberating  report  of  the  shot.  On  the  ledge,  Aaron 
King  lay  still. 

The  convict  dropped  his  rifle  and  ran  forward. 
Lifting  the  unconscious  man  in  his  arms,  he  carried 

430 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

him  a  little  way  down  the  mountain,  toward  the 
cabin;  where  he  laid  him  gently  on  the  ground.  To 
Sibyl,  who  hung  over  the  artist  in  an  agony  of  loving 
fear,  he  said  hurriedly,  "He'll  be  all  right,  presently, 
Miss  Andres.  I'll  fetch  his  coat  and  hat." 

Running  back  to  the  ledge,  he  caught  up  the  dead 
man's  rifle,  coat,  and  hat,  and  threw  them  over  the 
precipice,  as  he  swiftly  crossed  for  the  artist's  things. 
Recovering  his  own  rifle,  he  ran  back  to  the  girl. 

"Listen,  Miss  Andres,"  said  the  convict,  speaking 
quickly.  "Mr.  King  will  be  all  right  in  a  few  min- 
utes. That  rifle-shot  will  likely  bring  his  friends ;  if 
not,  you  are  safe,  now,  anyway.  I  dare  not  take 
chances.  Good-by." 

From  where  she  sat  with  the  unconscious  man's 
head  in  her  lap,  she  looked  at  him,  wonderingly. 
"Good-by  ?"  she  repeated  questioningly. 

Henry  Marston  smiled  grimly.  "Certainly,  good- 
by.  What  else  is  there  for  me  ?" 

A  moment  later,  she  saw  him  running  swiftly  down 
the  mountainside,  like  some  hunted  creature  of  the 
wilderness. 


431 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 


THE  BETTER  WAY 

LONE  on  the  mountainside  with  the  man 
who  had  awakened  the  pure  passion  of  her 
woman  heart,  Sibyl  Andres  bent  over  the 
unconscious  object  of  her  love.  She  saw 
his  face,  unshaven,  grimy  with  the  dirt  of 
the  trail  and  the  sweat  of  the  fight,  drawn 
and  thin  with  the  mental  torture  that  had  driven  him 
beyond  the  limit  of  his  physical  strength;  she  saw 
how  his  clothing  was  stained  and  torn  by  contact  with 
sharp  rocks  and  thorns  and  bushes ;  she  saw  his  hands 
— the  hands  that  she  had  watched  at  their  work  upon 
her  portrait  as  she  stood  among  the  roses — cut  and 
bruised,  caked  with  blood  and  dirt — and,  seeing  these 
things,  she  understood. 

In  that  brief  moment  when  she  had  watched  Aaron 
King  in  the  struggle  upon  the  ledge, — and,  knowing 
that  he  was  fighting  for  her,  had  realized  her  love  for 
him, — all  that  Mrs.  Taine  had  said  to  her  in  the 
studio  was  swept  away.  The  cruel  falsehoods,  the 
heartless  misrepresentations,  the  vile  accusations  that 
had  caused  her  to  seek  the  refuge  of  the  mountains 
and  the  protection  of  her  childhood  friends  were,  in 
the  blaze  of  her  awakened  passion,  burned  to  ashes; 
her  cry  to  the  convict — "I  love  him,  I  love  him" — was 
more  than  an  expression  of  her  love;  it  was  a  trium- 

432 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

pliant  assertion  of  her  belief  in  his  love  for  her — it 
was  her  answer  to  the  evil  seeing  world  that  could  not 
comprehend  their  fellowship. 

As  the  life  within  the  man  forced  him  slowly 
toward  consciousness,  the  girl,  natural  as  always  in 
the  full  expression  of  herself,  bent  over  him  with 
tender  solicitude.  With  endearing  words,  she  kissed 
his  brow,  his  hair,  his  hands.  She  called  his  name  in 
tones  of  affection.  "Aaron,  Aaron,  Aaron."  But 
when  she  saw  that  he  was  about  to  awake,  she  deftly 
slipped  off  her  jacket  and,  placing  it  under  his  head, 
drew  a  little  back. 

He  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  wonderingly  up  j\ 
the  dark  pines  that  clothed  the  mountainsides.  His 
lips  moved  and  she  heard  her  name ;  "Sibyl,  Sibyl." 

She  leaned  forward,  eagerly,  her  cheeks  glowing 
with  color.  "Yes,  Mr.  King." 

"Am  I  dreaming,  again?"  he  said  slowly,  gazing 
at  her  as  though  struggling  to  command  his  senses. 

"No,  Mr.  King,"  she  answered  cheerily,  "you  are 
not  dreaming." 

Carefully,  as  one  striving  to  follow  a  thread  oi 
thought  in  a  bewildering  tangle  of  events,  he  went 
over  the  hours  just  past.  "I  was  up  on  that  peak 
where  you  and  I  ate  lunch  the  day  you  tried  to  make 
me  see  the  Golden  State  Limited  coming  down  from 
the  pass.  Brian  Oakley  sent  me  there  to  watch  for 
buzzards."  For  a  moment  he  turned  away  his  face, 
then  continued,  "I  saw  flashes  of  light  in  Fairlands 
and  on  Granite  Peak.  I  left  a  note  for  Brian  and 
came  over  the  range.  I  spent  one  night  on  the  way. 
I  found  tracks  on  the  peak.  There  were  two,  a  man 

433 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

and  a  woman.  I  followed  them  to  a  ledge  of  rock 
at  the  head  of  a  canyon,"  he  paused.  Thus  far  the 
thread  of  his  thought  was  clear.  "Did  some  one  stop 
me  ?  Was  there — was  there  a  fight  ?  Or  is  that  part 
of  my  dream  ?" 

"No,"  she  said  softly,  "that  is  not  part  of  your 
dream." 

"And  it  was  James  Rutlidge  who  stopped  me,  as  I 
was  going  to  you  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  where — "  with  quick  energy  he  sat  up  and 
grasped  her  arm — "My  God!  Sibyl— Miss  Andres, 
did  I,  did  I — "  He  could  not  finish  the  sentence,  but 
sank  back,  overcome  with  emotion. 

The  girl  spoke  quickly,  with  a  clear,  insistent  voice 
that  rallied  his  mind  and  forced  him  to  command 
himself. 

"Think,  Mr.  King,  think!  Do  you  remember 
nothing  more  ?  You  were  struggling — your  strength 
was  going — can't  you  remember?  You  must,  you 
must!" 

Lifting  his  face  he  looked  at  her.  "Was  there  a 
rifle-shot?"  he  asked  slowly.  "It  seems  to  me  that 
something  in  my  brain  snapped,  and  everything  went 
black.  Was  there  a  rifle-shot  ?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered. 

"And  I  did  not — I  did  not — ?" 

"No.  You  did  not  kill  James  Rutlidge.  He  would 
have  killed  you,  but  for  the  shot  that  you  heard." 

"And  Rutlidge  is—  ?" 

"He  is  dead,"  she  answered  simply. 

"But  who— ?" 

434 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

Briefly,  she  told  him  the  story,  from  the  time  that 
she  had  met  Mrs.  Taine  in  the  studio  until  the  con- 
vict had  left  her,  a  few  minutes  before.  "And  now," 
she  finished,  rising  quickly,  "we  must  go  down  to 
the  cabin.  There  is  food  there.  You  must  be  nearly 
starved.  I  will  cook  supper  for  you,  and  when  you 
have  had  a  night's  sleep,  we  will  start  home." 

"But  first,"  he  said,  as  he  rose  to  his  feet  and  stood 
before  her,  "I  must  tell  you  something.  I  should 
have  told  you  before,  but  I  was  waiting  until  I 
thought  you  were  ready  to  hear.  I  wonder  if  you 
know.  I  wonder  if  you  are  ready  to  hear,  now." 

She  looked  him  frankly  in  the  eyes  as  she  answered, 
"Yes,  I  know  what  you  want  to  tell  me.  But  don't, 
don't  tell  me  here."  She  shuddered,  and  the  man 
remembering  the  dead  body  that  lay  at  the  foot  of 
the  cliff,  understood.  "Wait,"  she  said,  "until  we 
are  home." 

"And  you  will  come  to  me  when  you  are  ready? 
When  you  want  me  to  tell  you?"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  softly,  "I  will  go  to  you  when 
I  am  ready." 


At  the  cabin  in  the  gulch,  the  girl  hastened  to 
prepare  a  substantial  meal.  There  was  no  one,  now, 
to  fear  that  the  smoke  would  be  seen.  Later,  with 
cedar  boughs  and  blankets,  she  made  a  bed  for  him 
on  the  floor  near  the  fire-place.  WTien  he  would  have 
helped  her  she  forbade  him ;  saying  that  he  was  her 
guest  and  that  he  must  rest  to  be  ready  for  the  home- 
ward trip. 

435 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

Softly,  the  day  slipped  away  over  the  mountain 
peaks  and  ridges  that  shut  them  in.  Softly,  the  dark- 
ness of  the  night  settled  down.  In  the  rude  little 
hut,  in  the  lonely  gulch,  the  man  and  the  woman 
whose  lives  were  flowing  together  as  two  converging 
streams,  sat  by  the  fire,  where,  the  night  before,  the 
convict  had  told  that  girl  his  story. 

Very  early,  Sibyl  insisted  that  her  companion  lie 
down  to  sleep  upon  the  bed  she  had  made.  When 
he  protested,  she  answered,  laughing,  "Very  well, 
then,  but  you  will  be  obliged  to  sit  up  alone,"  and, 
with  a  "Good  night,"  she  retired  to  her  own  bed  in 
another  corner  of  the  cabin.  Once  or  twice,  he  spoke 
to  her,  but  when  she  did  not  answer  he  lay  down 
upon  his  woodland  couch  and  in  a  few  minutes  was 
fast  asleep. 

In  the  dim  light  of  the  embers,  the  girl  slipped 
from  her  bed  and  stole  quietly  across  the  room  to  the 
fire-place,  to  lay  another  stick  of  wood  upon  the 
glowing  coals.  A  moment  she  stood,  in  the  ruddy 
light,  looking  toward  the  sleeping  man.  Then,  with- 
out a  sound,  she  stole  to  his  side,  and  kneeling,  softly 
touched  his  forehead  with  her  lips.  As  silently,  she 
crept  back  to  her  couch. 


All  that  afternoon  Brian  Oakley  had  been  follow- 
ing, with  trained  eyes,  the  faintly  marked  trail  of 
the  man  whose  dead  body  was  lying,  now,  at  the  foot 
>f  the  cliff.  When  the  darkness  came,  the  moun- 
taineer ate  a  cold  supper  and,  under  a  rude  shelter 
quickly  improvised  by  his  skill  in  woodcraft,  slept 

436 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

beside  the  trail.  Near  the  head  of  Clear  Creek,  Jack 
Carleton,  on  his  way  to  Granite  Peak,  rolled  in  his 
blanket  under  the  pines.  Somewhere  in  the  night, 
the  man  who  had  saved  Sibyl  Andres  and  Aaron 
King,  each  for  the  other,  fled  like  a  fearful,  hunted 
thing. 


At  daybreak,  Sibyl  was  up,  preparing  their  break- 
fast. But  so  quietly  did  she  move  about  her  homely 
task  that  the  artist  did  not  awake.  When  the  meal 
was  ready,  she  called  him,  and  he  sprang  to  his  feet, 
declaring  that  he  felt  himself  a  new  man.  Breakfast 
over,  they  set  out  at  once. 

When  they  came  to  the  cliff  at  the  head  of  the 
gulch,  the  girl  halted  and,  shrinking  back,  covered 
her  face  with  trembling  hands;  afraid,  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life,  to  set  foot  upon  a  mountain  trail. 
Gently,  her  companion  led  her  across  the  ledge,  and 
a  little  way  back  from  the  rim  of  the  gorge  on  the 
other  side. 

Five  minutes  later  they  heard  a  shout  and  saw 
Brian  Oakley  coming  toward  them.  Laughing  and 
crying,  Sibyl  ran  to  meet  him ;  and  the  mountaineer, 
who  had  so  many  times  looked  death  in  the  face, 
unafraid  and  unmoved,  wept  like  a  child  as  he  held 
the  girl  in  his  arms. 

When  Sibyl  and  Aaron  had  related  briefly  the 
events  that  led  up  to  their  meeting  with  the  Ranger, 
and  he  in  turn  had  told  them  how  he  had  followed 
the  track  of  the  automobile  and,  finding  the  hidden 
supplies,  had  followed  the  trail  of  James  Rutlidge 

437 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOULD 

from  that  point,  the  officer  asked  the  girl  several 
questions.  Then,  for  a  little  while  he  was  silent, 
while  they,  guessing  his  thoughts,  did  not  interrupt. 
Finally,  he  said,  "Jack  is  due  at  Granite  Peak,  some- 
time about  noon.  He'll  have  his  horse,  and  with 
Sibyl  riding,  we'll  make  it  back  down  to  the  head 
of  Clear  Creek  by  dark.  You  young  folks  just  wait 
for  me  here  a  little.  1  want  to  look  around  below 
there,  a  bit." 

As  he  started  toward  the  gulch,  Sibyl  sprang  to 
her  feet  and  threw  herself  into  his  arms.  "No,  no, 
Brian  Oakley,  you  shall  not — you  shall  not  do  it !" 

Holding  her  close,  the  Ranger  looked  down  into 
her  pleading  eyes,  smilingly.  "And  what  do  you 
think  I  am  going  to  do,  girlie  ?" 

"You  are  going  down  there  to  pick  up  the  trail  of 
the  man  who  saved  Aaron — who  saved  me.  But  you 
shall  not  do  it.  I  don't  care  if  you  are  an  officer,  and 
he  is  an  escaped  convict!  I  will  not  let  you  do  any- 
thing that  might  lead  to  his  capture." 

"God  bless  you,  child,"  answered  Brian  Oakley, 
"the  only  escaped  convict  I  know  anything  about,  this 
last  year,  according  to  my  belief,  died  somewhere  in 
the  mountains.  If  you  don't  believe  it,  look  up  my 
official  reports  on  the  matter." 

"And  you're  not  going  to  find  which  way  he  went  ?" 

"Listen,  Sibyl,"  said  the  Ranger  gravely.  "The 
disappearance  of  James  Rutlidge,  prominent  as  he 
was,  will  be  heralded  from  one  end  of  the  world  to 
the  other.  The  newspapers  will  make  the  most  of  it. 
The  search  is  sure  to  be  carried  into  these  hills,  for 
that  automobile  trip  in  the  night  will  not  go  unques- 

438 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

tioned,  and  Sheriff  Walters  knows  too  much  of  my 
suspicions.  In  a  few  days,  the  body  will  be  safely 
past  recognition,  even  should  it  be  discovered  through 
the  buzzards.  But  I  can't  take  chances  of  anything 
durable  being  found  to  identify  the  man  who  fell 
over  the  cliff." 

When  he  returned  to  them,  two  hours  later,  he  said, 
quietly,  "It's  a  mighty  good  thing  I  went  down.  It 
wasn't  a  nice  job,  but  I  feel  better.  We  can  forget  it, 
now,  with  perfect  safetly.  Remember" — he  charged 
them  impressively — "even  to  Myra  Willard  and  Con- 
rad Lagrange,  the  story  must  be  only  that  an  un- 
known man  took  you,  Sibyl,  from  your  horse.  The 
man  escaped,  when  Aaron  found  you.  We'll  let  the 
Sheriff,  or  whoever  can,  solve  the  mystery  of  that 
automobile  and  Jim  Rutlidge's  disappearance." 

A  half  mile  from  Granite  Peak,  they  met  Jack 
Carleton  and,  by  dark,  as  Brian  Oakley  had  said, 
were  safely  down  to  the  head  of  Clear  Creek ;  having 
come  by  routes,  known  to  the  Ranger,  that  were  easier 
and  shorter  than  the  roundabout  way  followed  by  the 
convict  and  the  girl. 

It  was  just  past  midnight  when  the  three  friends 
parted  from  young  Carleton  and  crossed  the  canyon 
to  Sibyl's  old  home. 


139 


CHAPTER  XL 


FACING  THE  TRUTH 

S  Brian  Oakley  had  predicted,  the  disap- 
pearance of  James  Rutlidge  occupied 
columns  in  the  newspapers,  from  coast  to 
coast.  In  every  article  he  was  headlined 
as  "A  Distinguished  Citizen ;"  "A  Famous 
Critic;"  "A  Prominent  Figure  in  the 
World  of  Art ;"  "One  of  the  Greatest  Living  Author- 
ities;" "Leader  in  the  Modern  School;"  "Of  Power- 
ful Influence  Upon  the  Artistic  Production  of  the 
Age."  The  story  of  the  unknown  mountain  girl's 
abduction  and  escape  was  a  news  item  of  a  single 
day;  but  the  disappearance  of  James  Rutlidge  kept 
the  press  busy  for  weeks.  It  may  be  dismissed  here 
with  the  simple  statement  that  the  mystery  has  never 
been  solved. 

Of  the  unknown  man  who  had  taken  Sibyl  away 
into  the  mountains,  and  who  had  escaped,  the  world 
has  never  heard.  Of  the  convict  who  died  but  did 
not  die  in  the  hills,  the  world  knows  nothing.  That 
is,  the  world  knows  nothing  of  the  man  in  this  con- 
nection. But  Aaron  and  Sibyl,  some  years  later, 
knew  what  became  of  Henry  Marston — which  does 
not,  at  all,  belong  to  this  story. 

Upon  his  return  with  Conrad  Lagrange  to  their 
home  in  the  orange  groves,  Aaron  King  plunged  into 
his  work  with  a  purpose  very  different  from  the 

440 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOULD 

motive  that  had  prompted  him  when  first  he  took  up 
his  brushes  in  the  studio  that  looked  out  upon  the 
mountains  and  the  rose  garden. 

Day  after  day,  as  he  gave  himself  to  his  great 
picture, — "The  Feast  of  Materialism," — he  knew  the 
joy  of  the  worker  who,  in  his  art,  surrenders  himself 
to  a  noble  purpose — a  joy  that  is  very  different  from 
the  light,  passing  pleasure  that  comes  from  the  mere 
exercise  of  technical  skill.  The  artist  did  not,  now, 
need  to  drive  himself  to  his  task,  as  the  begging 
musician  on  the  street  corner  forces  himself  to  play 
to  the  passing  crowd,  for  the  pennies  that  are  dropped 
in  his  tin  cup.  Rather  was  he  driven  by  the  convic- 
tion of  a  great  truth,  and  by  the  realization  of  its 
woeful  need  in  the  world,  to  such  adequate  expression 
as  his  mastery  of  the  tools  of  his  craft  would  permit 
He  was  not,  now,  the  slave  of  his  technical  knowl- 
edge ;  striving  to  produce  a  something  that  should  be 
merely  technically  good.  He  was  a  master,  compell- 
ing the  medium  of  his  art  to  serve  him;  as  he,  in 
turn,  was  compelled  to  serve  the  truth  that  had  mas- 
tered him. 

Sometimes,  with  Conrad  Lagrange,  he  went  for  an 
evening  hour  to  the  little  house  next  door.  Some- 
times, Sibyl  and  Myra  Willard  would  drop  in  at  the 
studio,  in  the  afternoon.  The  girl  never,  now,  came 
alone.  But  every  day,  as  the  artist  worked,  the  music 
of  her  violin  came  to  him,  out  of  the  orange  grove, 
with  its  message  from  the  hills.  And  the  painter  at 
his  easel,  reading  aright  the  message,  worked  and 
waited ;  knowing  surely  that  when  she  was  ready  she 
would  come, 

441 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOELD 

Letters  from  Mrs.  Taine  were  frequent.  Aaron 
King,  reading  them — nearly  always  under  the  quiz- 
zing eyes  of  Conrad  Lagrange,  whose  custom  it  was 
to  bring  the  daily  mail — carefully  tore  them  into 
little  pieces  and  dropped  them  into  the  waste  basket, 
without  comment, 

Once,  the  novelist  asked  with  mock  gravity,  "Have 
you  no  thought  for  the  day  of  judgment,  young  man  ? 
Do  you  not  know  that  your  sins  will  surely  find  you 
out?" 

The  artist  laughed.  "It  is  so  written  in  the  law, 
I  believe." 

The  other  continued  solemnly,  "Your  recklessness 
is  only  hastening  the  end.  If  you  don't  answer  those 
letters  you  will  be  forced,  shortly,  to  meet  the  conse- 
quences face  to  face." 

"I  suppose  so,"  returned  the  painter,  indifferently. 
"But  I  have  my  answer  ready,  you  know." 

"You  mean  that  portrait  ?" 

"Yes." 

The  novelist  laughed  grimly.  "I  think  it  will  do 
the  trick.  But,  believe  me,  there  will  be  conse- 
quences !" 

The  artist  was  in  his  studio,  at  work  upon  the  big 
picture,  when  Mrs.  Taine  called,  the  day  of  her 
return  to  Fairlands. 

It  was  well  on  in  the  afternoon.  Conrad  Lagrange 
and  Czar  had  started  for  a  walk,  but  had  gone,  as 
usual,  only  as  far  as  the  neighboring  house.  Yee 
Kee,  meeting  Mrs.  Taine  at  the  door,  explained, 
doubtfully,  that  the  artist  was  at  his  work.  He 
would  go  tell  Mr.  King  that  Mrs.  Taine  was  here. 

442 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD. 

"Never  mind,  Kee.  I  will  tell  him  myself,"  she 
answered;  and,  before  the  Chinaman  could  protest, 
she  was  on  her  way  to  the  studio. 

"Damn !"  said  the  Celestial  eloquently;  and  retired 
to  his  kitchen  to  ruminate  upon  the  ways  of  "Melli- 
can  women." 

Mrs.  Taine  pushed  open  the  door  of  the  studio,  so 
quietly,  that  the  painter,  standing  at  his  easel  and 
engrossed  with  his  work,  did  not  notice  her  presence. 
For  several  moments  the  woman  stood  watching  him, 
paying  no  heed  to  the  picture,  seeing  only  the  man. 
When  he  did  not  look  around,  she  said,  "Are  you  too 
busy  to  even  look  at  me  ?" 

With  an  exclamation,  he  faced  her;  then,  as 
quickly,  turned  again;  with  hand  outstretched  to 
draw  the  easel  curtain.  But,  as  though  obeying  a 
second  thought  that  came  quickly  upon  the  heels  of 
the  first  impulse,  he  did  not  complete  the  movement. 
Instead,  he  laid  his  palette  and  brushes  beside  his 
color-box,  and  greeted  her  with,  "How  do  you  do, 
Mrs.  Taine?  When  did  you  return  to  Fairlands? 
Is  Miss  Taine  with  you  ?" 

"Louise  is  abroad,"  she  answered.  "I — I  preferred 
California.  I  arrived  this  afternoon."  She  went  a 
step  toward  him.  "You — you  don't  seem  very  glad 
to  see  me." 

The  painter  colored,  but  she  continued  impulsively, 
without  waiting  for  his  reply.  "If  you  only  knew 
all  that  I  have  been  doing  for  you ! — the  wires  I  have 
pulled;  the  influences  I  have  interested;  the  critics 
and  newspaper  men  that  I  have  talked  to !  Of  course 
I  couldn't  do  anything  in  a  large  public  way,  so  soon 

443 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

after  Mr.  Taine's  death,  you  know;  but  I  have  been 
busy,  just  the  same,  and  everything  is  fixed.  When 
our  picture  is  exhibited  next  season,  you  will  find 
yourself  not  only  a  famous  painter,  but  a  social 
success  as  well."  She  paused.  When  he  still  did  not 
speak,  she  went  on,  with  an  air  of  troubled  sadness ; 
"I  do  miss  Jim's  help  though.  Isn't  it  frightful  the 
way  he  disappeared  ?  Where  do  you  suppose  he  is  ? 
I  can't — I  won't — believe  that  anything  has  happened 
to  him.  It's  all  just  one  of  his  schemes  to  get  himself 
talked  about.  You'll  see  that  he  will  appear  again, 
safe  and  sound,  when  the  papers  stop  filling  their 
columns  about  him.  I  know  Jim  Rutlidge,  too  well." 

Aaron  King  thought  of  those  bones,  picked  bare  by 
the  carrion  birds,  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff.  "It  seems 
to  be  one  of  the  mysteries  of  the  day,"  he  said. 
"Commonplace  enough,  no  doubt,  if  one  only  had  the 
key  to  it." 

Mrs.  Taine  had  evidently  not  been  in  Fairlands 
long  enough  to  hear  the  story  of  Sibyl's  disappear- 
ance— for  which  the  artist  mentally  gave  thanks. 

"I  am  glad  for  one  thing,"  continued  the  woman, 
her  mind  intent  upon  the  main  purpose  of  her  call. 
"Jim  had  already  written  a  splendid  criticism  of  your 
picture — before  he  went  away — and  I  have  it.  All 
this  newspaper  talk  about  him  will  only  help  to 
attract  attention  to  what  he  has  said  about  you. 
They  are  saying  such  nice  things  of  him  and  his 
devotion  to  art,  you  know — it  is  all  bound  to  help 
you."  She  waited  for  his  approval,  and  for  some 
expression  of  his  gratitude. 


444 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOELD 

"I  fear,  Mrs.  Taine,"  he  said  slowly,  "that  you 
are  making  a  mistake." 

She  laughed  nervously,  and  answered  with  forced 
gaiety.  "Not  me.  I'm  too  old  a  hand  at  the  game 
not  to  know  just  how  far  I  dare  or  dare  not  go." 

"I  do  not  mean  that" — he  returned — "I  mean  that 
I  can  not  do  my  part.  I  fear  you  are  mistaken  in 
me." 

Again,  she  laughed.  "What  nonsense !  I  like  for 
you  to  be  modest,  of  course — that  will  be  one  of  your 
greatest  charms.  But  if  you  are  worried  about  the 
quality  of  your  work — forget  it,  my  dear  boy.  Once 
I  have  made  you  the  rage,  no  one  will  stop  to  think 
whether  your  pictures  are  good  or  bad.  The  art  is 
not  in  what  you  do,  but  in  how  you  get  it  before  the 
world.  Ask  Conrad  Lagrange  if  I  am  not  right." 

"As  to  that,"  returned  the  artist,  "Mr.  Lagrange 
agrees  with  you,  perfectly." 

"But  what  is  this  that  you  are  doing  now  ?  Will 
it  be  ready  for  the  exhibition  too  ?"  She  looked  past 
him,  at  the  big  canvas;  and  he,  watching  her  curi- 
ously, stepped  aside. 

Parts  of  the  picture  were  little  more  than  sketched 
in,  but  still,  line  and  color  spoke  with  accusing  truth 
the  spirit  of  the  company  that  had  gathered  at  the 
banquet  in  the  home  on  Fairlands  Heights,  the  night 
of  Mr.  Taine's  death.  The  figures  were  not  portraits, 
it  is  true,  but  they  expressed  with  striking  fidelity, 
the  lives  and  characters  of  those  who  had,  that  night, 
been  assembled  by  Mrs.  Taine  to  meet  the  artist. 
The  figure  in  the  picture,  standing  with  uplifted  glass 


445 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

and  drunken  pose  at  the  head  of  the  table — with 
bestial,  lust-worn  face,  disease-shrunken  limbs,  and 
dying,  licentious  eves  fixed  upon  the  beautiful  girl 
musician — might  easily  have  been  Mr.  Taine  himself. 
The  distinguished  writers,  and  critics;  the  repre- 
sentatives of  the  social  world  and  of  wealth ;  Conrad 
Lagrange  with  cold,  cynical,  mocking,  smile;  Mrs. 
Taine  with  her  pretense  of  modest  dress  that  only 
emphasized  her  immodesty;  and,  in  the  midst  of  the 
unclean  minded  crew,  the  lovely  innocence  and  the 
unconscious  purity  of  the  mountain  girl  with  her 
violin,  offering  to  them  that  which  they  were  incap- 
able of  receiving — it  was  all  there  upon  the  canvas, 
as  the  artist  had  seen  it  that  night.  The  picture 
cried  aloud  the  intellectual  degradation  and  the 
spiritual  depravity  of  that  class  who,  arrogating  to 
themselves  the  authority  of  leaders  in  culture  and 
art,  by  their  approval  and  patronage  of  dangerous 
falsehood  and  sham  in  picture  or  story,  make  pos- 
sible such  characters  as  James  Rutlidge. 

Aaron  King,  watching  Mrs.  Taine  as  she  looked 
at  the  picture  on  the  easel,  saw  a  look  of  doubt  and 
uncertainty  come  over  her  face.  Once,  she  turned 
toward  him,  as  if  to  speak;  but,  without  a  word, 
looked  again  at  the  canvas.  She  seemed  perplexed 
and  puzzled,  as  though  she  caught  glimpses  of  some- 
thing in  the  picture  that  she  did  not  rightly  under- 
stand. Then,  as  she  looked,  her  eyes  kindled  with 
contemptuous  scorn,  and  there  was  a  pronounced 
sneer  in  her  cold  tones  as  she  said,  "Really,  I  don't 
believe  I  care  for  you  to  do  this  sort  of  thing."  She 
laughed  shortly.  "It  reminds  one  a  little  of  that 

446 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

dinner  at  our  house.  Don't  you  think  ?  It's  the  girl 
with  the  violin,  I  suppose." 

"There  are  no  portraits  in  it,  Mrs.  Taine,"  said 
the  artist,  quietly. 

"No?  Well,  I  think  you'd  better  stick  to  your 
portraits.  This  is  a  great  picture  though,"  she 
admitted  thoughtfully.  "It,  it  grips  you  so.  I  can't 
seem  to  get  away  from  it.  I  can  see  that  it  will 
create  a  sensation.  But  just  the  same,  I  don't  like  it. 
It's  not  nice,  like  your  portrait  of  me.  By  the  way" 
— and  she  turned  eagerly  from  the  big  canvas  as 
though  glad  to  escape  a  distasteful  subject — "do  you 
remember  that  I  have  never  seen  my  picture  yet? 
Where  do  you  keep  it  ?" 

The  painter  indicated  another  easel,  near  the  one 
upon  which  he  was  at  work.  "It  is  there,  Mrs. 
Taine." 

"Oh,"  she  said  with  a  pleased  smile.  "You  keep 
it  on  the  easel,  still !"  Playfully,  she  added,  "Do  you 
look  at  it  often  ? — that  you  have  it  so  handy  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  artist,  "I  must  admit  that  I  have 
looked  at  it  frequently."  He  did  not  explain  why 
ha  looked  at  her  portrait  while  he  was  working  upon 
the  larger  picture. 

"How  nice  of  you,"  she  answered  "Please  let  me 
see  it  now.  I  remember  when  you  wanted  to  repaint 
it,  you  said  you  would  put  on  the  canvas  just  what 
you  thought  of  me ;  have  you  ?  I  wonder !" 

"I  would  rather  that  you  judge  for  yourself,  Mrs. 
Taine,"  he  answered,  and  drew  the  curtain  that  hid 
the  painting. 

As  the  woman  looked  upon  that  portrait  of  herself, 

447 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOKLD 

into  which  Aaron  King  had  painted,  with  all  the 
skill  at  his  command,  everything  that  he  had  seen  in 
her  face  as  she  posed  for  him,  she  stood  a  moment 
as  though  stunned.  Then,  with  a  gesture  of  horror 
and  shame,  she  shrank  back,  as  though  the  painted 
thing  accused  her  of  being  what,  indeed,  she  really 
was. 

Turning  to  the  artist,  imploringly,  she  whispered, 
"Is  it — is  it — true  ?  Am  I — am  I  that  ?" 

Aaron  King,  remembering  how  she  had  sent  the 
girl  he  loved  so  nearly  to  a  shameful  end,  and  think- 
ing of  those  bones  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff,  answered 
justly ;  "At  least,  madam,  there  is  more  truth  in  that 
picture  than  in  the  things  you  said  to  Miss  Andres, 
here  in  this  room,  the  day  you  left  Fairlands." 

Her  face  went  white  with  quick  rage,  but,  control- 
ing  herself,  she  said,  "And  where  is  the  picture  of 
your  mistress?  I  should  like  to  see  it  again,  please." 

"Gladly,  madam,"  returned  the  artist.  "Because 
you  are  a  woman,  it  is  the  only  answer  I  can  make 
to  your  charge;  which,  permit  me  to  say,  is  as  false 
as  that  portrait  of  you  is  true." 

Quickly  he  pushed  another  easel  to  a  position 
beside  the  one  that  held  Mrs.  Taine's  portrait,  and 
drew  the  curtain. 

The  effect,  for  a  moment,  silenced  even  Mrs.  Taine 
— but  only  for  a  moment.  A  character  that  is  the 
product  of  certain  years  of  schooling  in  the  thought 
and  spirit  of  the  class  in  which  Mrs.  Taine  belonged, 
is  not  transformed  by  a  single  exhibition  of  painted 
truth.  From  the  two  portraits,  the  woman  turned  to 
the  larger  canvas.  Then  she  faced  the  artist. 

448 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

"You  fool !"  she  said  with  bitter  rage.  "0  you  fool ! 
Do  you  think  that  you  will  ever  be  permitted  to 
exhibit  such  trash  as  this  ?"  she  waved  her  hand  to 
include  the  three  paintings.  "Do  you  think  that  I 
am  going  to  drag  you  up  the  ladder  of  social  position 
to  fame  and  to  wealth  for  such  reward  as  that  ?"  she 
singled  out  her  own  portrait.  "Bah !  you  are  impos- 
sible— impossible !  I  have  been  mad  to  think  that  I 
could  make  anything  out  of  you.  As  for  your  idiotic 
claim  that  you  have  painted  the  truth — "  She  seized 
a  large  palette  knife  that  lay  with  the  artist's  tools 
upon  the  table,  and  springing  to  her  portrait,  hacked 
and  mutilated  the  canvas.  The  artist  stood  motion- 
less, making  no  effort  to  stop  her.  When  the  picture 
was  utterly  defaced  she  threw  it  at  his  feet.  "That, 
for  your  truth,  Mr.  King!"  With  a  quick  motion, 
she  turned  toward  the  other  portrait. 

But  the  artist,  who  had  guessed  her  purpose, 
caught  her  hand.  "That  picture  was  yours,  madam — 
this  one  is  mine."  There  was  a  significant  ring  of 
triumph  in  his  voice. 

Neither  Aaron  King  nor  Mrs.  Taine  had  noticed 
three  people  who  had  entered  the  rose  garden,  from 
the  orange  grove,  through  the  little  gate  in  the  corner 
of  the  hedge.  Conrad  Lagrange,  Myra  Willard  and 
Sibyl  were  going  to  the  studio ;  deliberately  bent  upon 
interrupting  the  artist  at  his  work.  They  sometimes 
— as  Conrad  Lagrange  put  it — made,  thus,  a  life- 
saving  crew  of  three;  dragging  the  painter  to  safety 
when  the  waves  of  inspiration  were  about  to  over- 
whelm him.  Czar,  of  course,  took  an  active  part  in 
these  rescues. 

449 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WOKLD 

As  the  three  friends  approached  the  trellised  arch 
that  opened  from  the  garden  into  the  yard,  a  few 
feet  from  the  studio  door,  the  sound  of  Mrs.  Taine's 
angry  voice,  came  clearly  through  the  open  window. 

Conrad  Lagrange  stopped.  "Evidently,  Mr.  King 
has  company,"  he  said,  dryly. 

"It  is  Mrs.  Taine,  is  it  not  ?"  asked  Sibyl,  quietly, 
recognizing  the  woman's  voice. 

"Yes,"  answered  the  novelist. 

The  woman  with  the  disfigured  face  said  hurriedly, 
"Come,  Sibyl,  we  must  go  back.  We  will  not  disturb 
Mr.  King,  now,  Mr.  Lagrange.  You  two  come  over 
this  evening."  They  saw  her  face  white  and  fright- 
ened. 

"I  believe  I'll  go  back  with  you,  if  you  don't 
mind,"  returned  Conrad  Lagrange,  with  his  twisted 
grin;  "I  don't  think  I  want  any  of  that  in  there, 
either."  To  the  dog  who  was  moving  toward  the 
studio  door,  he  added;  "Here,  Czar,  you  mustn't 
interrupt  the  lady.  You're  not  in  her  class." 

They  were  moving  away,  when  Mrs.  Taine's  voice 
came  again,  clearly  and  distinctly,  through  the  win- 
dow. 

"Oh,  very  well.  I  wish  you  joy  of  your  possession. 
I  promise  you,  though,  that  the  world  shall  never 
hear  of  this  portrait  of  your  mistress.  If  you  dare 
try  to  exhibit  it,  I  shall  see  that  the  people  to  whom 
you  must  look  for  your  patronage  know  how  you 
found  the  original,  an  innocent,  mountain  girl,  and 
brought  her  to  your  studio  to  live  with  you.  Fair- 
lands  has  already  talked  enough,  but  my  influence 
has  prevented  it  from  going  too  far.  You  may  be 

450 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

very  sure  that  from  now  on  I  shall  not  exert  myself 
to  deny  it." 

The  artist's  friends  in  the  rose  garden,  again, 
stopped  involuntarily.  Sibyl  tittered  a  low  exclama- 
tion. 

Conrad  Lagrange  looked  at  Myra  Willard.  "I 
think,"  he  said  in  a  low  tone,  "that  the  time  baa 
come.  Can  you  do  it  ?" 

"Yes.  I — I — must,"  returned  the  woman.  She 
spoke  to  the  girl,  who,  being  a  little  in  advance,  had 
not  heard  the  novelist's  words,  "Sibyl,  dear,  will  you 
go  on  home,  please  ?  Mr.  Lagrange  will  stay  with  me. 
I — I  will  join  you  presently." 

At  a  look  from  Conrad  Lagrange,  the  girl  obeyed. 

"Go  with  Sibyl,  Czar,"  said  the  novelist ;  and  the 
girl  and  the  dog  went  quickly  away  through  the 
garden. 

In  the  studio,  Aaron  King  gazed  at  the  angry 
woman  in  amazement.  "Mrs.  Taine,"  he  said,  with 
quiet  dignity,  "I  must  tell  you  that  I  hope  to  make 
Miss  Andres  my  wife." 

She  laughed  harshly.  "And  what  has  that  to  do 
with  it?" 

"I  thought  that  if  you  knew,  it  might  help  you  to 
understand  the  situation,"  he  answered  simply. 

"I  understand  the  situation,  very  well,"  she 
retorted,  "but  you  do  not  appear  to.  The  situation 
is  this:  I — I  was  interested  in  you — as  an  artist. 
I,  because  my  position  in  the  world  enabled  me  to 
help  you,  commissioned  you  to  paint  my  portrait. 
You  are  unknown,  with  no  name,  no  place  in  the 
world.  I  could  have  given  you  success.  I  could  have 

451 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

introduced  you  to  the  people  that  you  must  know  if 
you  are  to  succeed.  My  influence  would  insure  you  a 
favorable  reception  from  those  who  make  the  reputa- 
tions of  men  like  you.  I  could  have  made  you  the 
rage.  I  could  have  made  you  famous.  And  now — " 

"Now,"  he  said  calmly,  "you  will  exert  your  influ- 
ence to  hinder  me  in  my  work.  Because  I  have  not 
pleased  you,  you  will  use  whatever  power  you  have 
to  ruin  me.  Is  that  what  you  mean,  Mrs.  Taine  ?" 

"You  have  made  your  choice.  You  must  take  the 
consequences,"  she  replied  coldly,  and  turned  to  leave 
the  studio. 

In  the  doorway,  stood  the  woman  with  the  dis- 
figured face. 

Conrad  Lagrange  stood  near. 


452 


CHAPTEE  XLI 
MARKS  OF  THE  BEAST 

Mrs.  Taine  would  have  passed  out 
of  the  studio,  the  woman  with  the  dis- 
figured face  said,  "Wait  madam,  I  must 
speak  to  you." 

Aaron  King  recalled  that  strange  scene 
at  the  depot,  the  day  of  his  arrival  in 
Fairlands. 

"I  have  nothing  k/  say  to  you" — returned  Mrs. 
Taine,  coldly — "stand  aside  please." 

But  Conrad  Lagrange  quietly  closed  the  door.  "I 
think,  Mrs.  Taine,"  he  remarked  dryly,  "that  you 
will  be  interested  in  what  Miss  Willard  has  to  say." 
"Oh,  very  well,"  returned  the  other,  making  the 
best  of  the  situation.  "Evidently,  you  heard  what  I 
just  said  to  your  protege." 

The  novelist  answered,  "We  did.  Accept  my  com- 
pliments, madam ;  you  did  it  very  nicely." 

"Thanks,"  she  retorted,  "I  see  you  still  play  your 
role  of  protector.  You  might  tell  your  charge 
whether  or  not  I  am  mistaken  as  to  the  probable 
result  of  his — ah — artistic  conscientiousness." 

"Mr.  King  knows  that  you  are  not.  You  have, 
indeed,  put  the  situation  rather  mildly.  It  is  a  sad 
fact,  but,  never-the-less,  a  fact,  that  the  noblest  work 
is  often  forced  to  remain  unrecognized  and  unknown 

453 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

to  the  world  by  the  same  methods  that  are  used  to 
exalt  the  unworthy.  You  undoubtedly  have  the 
power  of  which  you  boast,  Mrs.  Taine,  but — " 

"But  what  ?"  she  said  triumphantly.  "You  think 
I  will  hesitate  to  use  my  influence  ?" 

"I  know  you  will  not  use  it — in  this  case,"  came 
the  unexpected  answer. 

She  laughed  mockingly,  "And  why  not  ?  What 
will  prevent?" 

"The  one  thing  on  earth,  that  you  fear,  madam"- 
answered  Conrad  Lagrange — "the  eyes  of  the  world." 

Aaron  King  listened,  amazed. 

"I  don't  think  I  understand,"  said  Mrs.  Taine, 
coldly. 

"No?  That  is  what  Miss  Willard  proposes  to 
explain,"  returned  the  novelist. 

She  turned  haughtily  toward  the  woman  with  the 
disfigured  face.  "What  can  this  poor  creature  say  to 
anything  I  propose  ?" 

Myra  Willard  answered  gently,  sadly,  "Have  you 
no  kindness,  no  sympathy  at  all,  madam  ?  Is  there 
nothing  but  cruel  selfishness  in  your  heart  ?" 

"You  are  insolent,"  retorted  the  other,  sharply. 
"Say  what  you  have  to  say  and  be  brief." 

Myra  Willard  drew  close  to  the  woman  and  looked 
long  and  searchingly  into  her  face.  The  other 
returned  her  gaze  with  contemptuous  indifference. 

"I  have  been  sorry  for  you,"  said  Myra  Willard 
slowly.  "I  have  not  wished  to  speak.  But  I  know 
what  you  said  to  Sibyl,  here  in  the  studio;  and  I 
overheard  what  you  said  to  Mr.  King,  a  few  minutes 
ago.  I  cannot  keep  silent." 

454 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

"Proceed,"  said  Mrs.  Taine,  shortly.  "Say  what 
you  have  to  say,  and  be  done  with  it." 

Myra  Willard  obeyed.  "Mrs.  Taine,  twenty-six 
years  ago,  your  guardian,  the  father  of  James  Rut- 
lidge,  won  the  love  of  a  young  girl.  It  does  not 
matter  who  she  was.  She  was  beautiful  and  inno- 
cent. That  was  her  misfortune.  Beauty  and  inno- 
cence often  bring  pain  and  sorrow,  madam,  in  a  world 
where  there  are  too  many  men  like  Mr.  Rutlidge, 
and  his  son.  The  girl  thought  the  man — she  did  not 
know  him  by  his  real  name — her  lover.  She  thought 
that  he  became  her  husband.  A  baby  was  born  to 
the  girl  who  believed  herself  a  wife;  and  the  young 
mother  was  happy.  For  a  short  time,  she  was  very 
happy. 

"Then,  the  awakening  came.  The  girl  mother  was 
holding  her  baby  to  her  breast,  and  singing,  as  happy 
mothers  do,  when  a  strange  woman  appeared  in  the 
open  door  of  the  room.  She  was  a  beautiful  woman, 
richly  dressed;  but  her  face  was  distorted  with 
passion.  The  young  mother  did  not  understand.  She 
did  not  know,  then,  that  the  woman  was  Mrs.  Rut- 
lidge— the  true  wife  of  the  father  of  her  child.  She 
knew  that,  afterward.  The  woman  in  the  doorway 
lifted  her  hand  as  though  to  throw  something,  and 
the  mother,  instinctively,  bowed  her  head  to  shield 
her  baby.  Then  something  that  burned  like  fire  struck 
her  face  and  neck.  She  screamed  in  agony,  and 
fainted. 

"The  rest  of  the  story  does  not  matter,  I  think. 
The  injured  mother  was  taken  to  thf  hospital.  When 
she  recovered,  she  learned  that  Mrs.  Rutlidge  was 

455 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

dead — a  suicide.  Later,  Mr.  Rutlidge  took  the  bab} 
to  raise  as  his  ward ;  telling  the  world  that  the  child 
was  the  daughter  of  a  relative  who  had  died  at  its 
birth.  You  must  understand  that  when  the  disfigured 
mother  of  the  baby  came  to  know  the  truth,  she 
believed  that  it  would  be  better  for  the  little  one  if 
the  facts  of  its  birth  were  never  known.  The  wealthy 
Mr.  Rutlidge  could  give  his  ward  every  advantage  of 
culture  and  social  position.  The  child  would  grow 
to  womanhood  with  no  stain  upon  her  name.  Because 
she  felt  she  owed  her  baby  this,  the  only  thing  that 
she  could  give  her,  the  mother  consented  and  disap- 
peared. 

"Madam,"  finished  Myra  Willard,  slowly,  "a  little 
of  the  acid  that  burned  that  mother's  face  fell  upon 
the  shoulder  of  her  illegitimate  baby." 

"God !"  exclaimed  the  artist. 

Throughout  Myra  Willard's  story,  Mrs.  Taine 
stood  like  a  woman  of  stone.  At  the  end,  she  gazed 
at  the  woman's  disfigured  face,  as  though  fascinated 
with  horror,  while  her  hands  moved  to  finger  the 
buttons  of  her  dress.  Unconscious  of  what  she  was 
doing,  as  though  under  some  strange  spell,  without 
removing  her  gaze  from  Myra  Willard's  marred  fea- 
tures, she  opened  the  waist  of  her  dress  and  bared 
to  them  her  right  shoulder.  It  was  marked  by  a  broad 
scar  like  the  scars  that  disfigured  the  face  of  her 
mother. 

Myra  Willard  started  forward,  impelled  by  the 
mother  instinct.  "My  baby,  my  poor,  poor  girl !" 

The  words  broke  the  spell.  Drawing  back  with  an 
air  of  cold,  unconquerable  pride,  the  woman  looked 

456 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

at  Conrad  Lagrange.  "And  now,"  she  said,  as  she 
swiftly  rearranged  her  dress,  "perhaps  you  will  be 
good  enough  to  tell  me  why  you  have  done  this." 

Myra  Willard  turned  away  to  sink  into  a  chair, 
white  and  trembling.  Aaron  King  stepped  quickly 
to  her  side,  and,  placing  his  hand  gently  on  her  shoul- 
der, waited  for  the  novelist  to  speak. 

"Miss  Willard  told  you  this  story  because  I  asked 
her  to,"  said  Conrad  Lagrange.  "I  asked  her  to  tell 
you  because  it  gives  me  the  power  to  protect  the  two 
people  who  are  dearer  to  me  than  all  the  world/' 

"Still  in  your  role  of  protector,  I  see,"  sneered 
Mrs.  Taine. 

"Exactly,  madam.  It  happens  that  I  was  a 
reporter  on  a  certain  newspaper  when  the  incidents 
just  related  occurred.  I  wrote  the  story  for  the 
press.  In  fact,  it  was  the  story  that  gave  me  my  start 
in  yellow  journalism,  from  which  I  graduated  the 
novelist  of  your  acquaintance.  I  know  the  newspaper 
game  thoroughly,  Mrs.  Taine.  I  know  the  truth  of 
this  story  that  you  have  just  heard.  Permit  me  to 
say,  that  I  know  how  to  write  in  the  approved  news- 
paper style,  and  to  add  that  my  name  insures  a  wide 
hearing.  Proceed  to  carry  out  your  threats,  and  I 
promise  you  that  I  will  give  this  attractive  bit  of 
news,  in  all  its  colorful  details,  to  every  newspaper 
in  the  land.  Can't  you  see  the  headlines  ?  'Startling 
Revelation,'  'The  Secret  of  the  Beautiful  Mrs. 
Taine's  Shoulders,'  'Why  a  Leader  in  the  Social 
World  makes  Modesty  her  Fad,'  'The  Parentage  of  a 
Social  Leader.'  Do  you  understand,  madam  ?  Use 
your  influence  to  interfere  with  or  to  hinder  Mr. 

457 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

King  in  his  work;  or  fail  to  use  your  influence  to 
contradict  the  lies  you  have  already  started  about  the 
character  of  Miss  Andres ;  and  I  will  use  the  influence 
of  my  pen  and  the  prestige  of  my  name  to  put  you 
before  the  eyes  of  the  world  for  what  you  are." 

For  a  moment  the  woman  looked  at  him,  defiantly. 
Then,  as  she  grasped  the  full  significance  of  what  he 
had  said,  she  slowly  bowed  her  head. 

Conrad  Lagrange  opened  the  door. 

As  she  went  out,  the  woman  with  the  disfigured 
face  started  forward,  holding  out  her  hands  appeal- 
ingly. 

Mrs.  Taine  did  not  look  back,  but  went  quickly 
toward  the  big  automobile  that  was  waiting  in- front 
of  the  house. 


458 


CHAPTER  XLII 
AARON  KING'S  SUCCESS 

E  winter  months  were  past. 

Aaron  King  was  sitting '  before  his 
finished  picture.  The  colors  were  still 
fresh  upon  the  canvas  that,  to-day,  hangs 
in  an  honored  place  in  one  of  the  great 
galleries  of  the  world.  To  the  last  careful 
touch,  the  artist  had  put  into  his  painted  message, 
the  best  he  had  to  give.  Back  of  every  line  and 
brush-stroke  there  was  the  deep  conviction  of  a 
worthy  motive.  For  an  hour,  he  had  been  sitting 
there,  before  the  easel,  brush  and  palette  in  hand, 
without  touching  the  canvas.  He  could  do  no  more. 
Laying  aside  his  tools,  he  went  to  his  desk,  and 
took  from  the  drawer,  that  package  of  his  mother's 
letters.  He  pushed  a  deep  arm-chair  in  front  of  his 
picture,  and  again  seated  himself.  As  he  read  letter 
after  letter,  he  lifted  his  eyes,  at  almost  every  sen- 
tence, from  the  written  pages  to  his  work.  It  was 
as  though  he  were  submitting  his  picture  to  a  final 
test — as,  indeed,  he  was.  He  had  reached  the  last 
letter  when  Conrad  Lagrange  entered  the  studio; 
Czar  at  his  heels. 

Every  day,  while  the  picture  was  growing  under 
the  artist's  hand,  his  friend  had  watched  it  take  on 
beauty  and  power.  He  did  not  need  to  speak  of  the 
finished  painting,  now. 

459 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

"Well,  lad,"  lie  said,  "the  old  letters  again?" 

The  artist,  caressing  the  dog's  silky  head  as  it  was 
thrust  against  his  knee,  answered,  "Yes,  I  finished 
the  picture  two  hours  ago.  I  have  been  having  a 
private  exhibition  all  on  my  own  hook.  Listen." 
From  the  letter  in  his  hand  he  read : 

"It  is  right  for  you  to  be  ambitious,  my  son.  I 
would  not  have  you  otherwise.  Without  a  strong 
desire  to  reach  some  height  that  in  the  distance  lifts 
above  the  level  of  the  present,  a  man  becomes  a  lag- 
gard on  the  highway  of  life — a  mere  loafer  by  the 
wayside — slothful,  indolent — slipping  easily,  as  the 
years  go,  into  the  most  despicable  of  places — the  place 
of  a  human  parasite  that,  contributing  nothing  to  the 
wealth  of  the  race,  feeds  upon  the  strength  of  the 
multitude  of  toilers  who  pass  him  by.  But  ambition, 
my  boy,  is  like  to  all  the  other  gifts  that  lead  men 
Godward.  It  must  be  a  noble  ambition,  nobly  con- 
trolled. A  mere  striving  for  place  and  power,  without 
a  saving  sense  of  the  responsibility  conferred  by  that 
place  and  power,  is  ignoble.  Such  an  ambition,  I 
know — as  you  will  some  day  come  to  understand — 
is  not  a  blessing  but  a  curse.  It  is  the  curse  from 
which  our  age  is  suffering  sorely ;  and  which,  if  it  be 
not  lifted,  will  continue  to  vitiate  the  strength  and 
poison  the  life  of  the  race. 

"Because  I  would  have  your  ambition,  a  safe  and 
worthy  ambition,  Aaron,  I  ask  that  the  supreme  and 
final  test  of  any  work  that  comes  from  your  hand 
may  be  this ;  that  it  satisfy  you,  yourself — that  you 
may  be  not  ashamed  to  sit  down  alone  with  your 
work,  and  thus  to  look  it  squarely  in  the  face.  Not 

460 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

critics,  nor  authorities,  not  popular  opinion,  not  even 
law  or  religion,  must  be  the  court  of  final  appeal 
when  you  are,  by  what  you  do,  brought  to  bar;  but 
by  you,  yourself,  the  judgment  must  be  rendered. 
And  this,  too,  is  true,  my  son,  by  that  judgment  and 
that  judgment  alone,  you  will  truly  live  or  you  will 
truly  die." 

"And  that" — said  the  novelist — so  famous  in  the 
eyes  of  the  world,  so  infamous  in  his  own  sight — 
"and  that  is  what  she  tried  to  make  me  believe,  when 
she  and  I  were  young  together.  But  I  would  not. 
I  would  not  accept  it.  I  thought  if  I  could  win  fame 
that  she — "  he  checked  himself  suddenly. 

"But  you  have  led  me  to  accept  it,  old  man,"  cried 
the  artist  heartily.  "You  have  opened  my  eyes.  You 
have  helped  me  to  understand  my  mother,  as  I  never 
could  have  understood  her,  alone." 

Conrad  Lagrange  smiled.  "Perhaps,"  he  admitted 
whimsically.  "No  doubt  good  may  sometimes  be 
accomplished  by  the  presentation  of  a  horrible 
example.  But  go  on  with  your  private  exhibition. 
I'll  not  keep  you  longer.  Come,  Czar." 

In  spite  of  the  artist's  protests,  he  left  the  studio. 

While  the  painter  was  putting  away  his  letters,  the 
novelist  and  the  dog  went  through  the  rose  garden 
and  the  orange  grove,  straight  to  the  little  house  next 
door.  They  walked  as  though  on  a  definite  mission. 

Sibyl  and  Myra  Willard  were  sitting  on  the  porch. 

"Howdy,  neighbor,"  called  the  girl,  as  the  tall, 
ungainly  form  of  the  famous  novelist  appeared. 
"You  seem  to  be  the  bearer  of  news.  What  is  the 
latest  word  from  the  seat  of  war  ?" 

461 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

"It  is  finished,"  said  Conrad  Lagrange,  returning 
Myra's  gentle  greeting,  and  accepting  the  chair  that 
Sibyl  offered. 

"The  picture  ?"  said  the  girl  eagerly,  a  quick  color 
flushing  her  cheeks.  "Is  the  picture  finished  ?" 

"Finished,"  returned  the  novelist.  "I  just  left 
him  mooning  over  it  like  a  mother  over  a  brand-new 
baby." 

They  laughed  together,  and  when,  a  moment  later, 
the  girl  slipped  into  the  house  and  did  not  return, 
the  woman  with  the  disfigured  face  and  the  famous 
novelist  looked  at  each  other  with  smiling  eyes. 
When  Czar,  with  sudden  interest,  started  around  the 
corner  of  the  house,  his  master  said  suggestively, 
"Czar,  you  better  stay  here  with  the  old  folks." 

Passing  through  the  house,  and  out  of  the  kitchen 
door,  Sibyl  ran,  lightly,  through  the  orange  grove,  to 
the  little  gate  in  the  corner  of  the  Ragged  Robin 
hedge.  A  moment  she  paused,  hesitating,  then,  steal- 
ing cautiously  into  the  rose  garden,  she  darted  in 
quick  flight  to  the  shelter  of  the  arbor;  where  she 
parted  the  screen  of  vines  to  gain  a  view  of  the  studio. 

Between  the  big,  north  window  and  the  window 
that  opened  into  the  garden,  she  saw  the  artist.  She 
saw,  too,  the  big  canvas  upon  the  easel.  But  Aaron 
King  was  not,  now,  looking  at  his  work  just  finished. 
He  was  sitting  before  that  other  picture  into  which  he 
had  unconsciously  painted,  not  only  the  truth  that 
he  saw  in  the  winsome  loveliness  of  the  girl  who 
posed  for  him  with  outstretched  hands  among  the 
roses,  but  his  love  for  her  as  well. 

With  a  low  laugh,  Sibyl  drew  back.     Swiftly,  as 

462 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

she  had  reached  the  arbor,  she  crossed  the  garden, 
and  a  moment  later,  paused  at  the  studio  door.  Again 
she  hesitated — then,  gently, — so  gently  that  the  artist, 
lost  in  his  dreams,  did  not  hear, — she  opened  the 
door.  For  a  little,  she  stood  watching  him.  Softly, 
she  took  a  few  steps  toward  him.  The  artist,  as 
though  sensing  her  presence,  started  and  looked 
around. 

She  was  standing  as  she  stood  in  the  picture;  her 
hands  outstretched,  a  smile  of  welcome  on  her  lips, 
the  light  of  gladness  in  her  eyes. 

As  he  rose  from  his  chair  before  the  easel,  she 
went  to  him. 


l^ot  many  days  later,  there  was  a  quiet  wedding, 
at  Sibyl's  old  home  in  the  hills.  Besides  the  two 
young  people  and  the  clergyman,  only  Brian  Oakley, 
Mrs.  Oakley,  Conrad  Lagrange  and  Myra  Willard 
were  present.  These  friends  who  had  prepared  the 
old  place  for  the  mating  ones,  after  a  simple  dinner 
following  the  ceremony,  returned  down  the  canyon 
to  the  Station. 

Standing  arm  in  arm,  where  the  old  road  turns 
around  the  cedar  thicket,  and  where  the  artist  had 
first  seen  the  girl,  Sibyl  and  Aaron  watched  them  go. 
From  the  other  side  of  roaring  Clear  Creek,  they 
turned  to  wave  hats  and  handkerchiefs ;  the  two  in 
the  shadow  of  the  cedars  answered ;  Czar  barked  joy- 
ful congratulations;  and  the  wagon  disappeared  in 
the  wilderness  growth. 

Instead  of  turning  back  to  the  house  behind  them, 

463 


THE  EYES  OF  THE  WORLD 

the  two,  without  speaking,  as  though  obeying  a  com- 
mon impulse,  set  out  down  the  canyon. 

A  little  later  they  stood  in  the  old  spring  glade, 
where  the  alders  bore,  still,  in  the  smooth,  gray  bark 
of  their  trunks,  the  memories  of  long-ago  lovers; 
where  the  light  fell,  slanting  softly  through  the  screen 
of  leaf  and  branch  and  vine  and  virgin' s-bower,  upon 
the  granite  boulder  and  the  cress-mottled  waters  of 
the  spring,  as  through  the  window  traceries  of  a  vast 
and  quiet  cathedral;  and  where  the  distant  roar  of 
the  mountain  stream  trembled  in  the  air  like  the 
deep  tones  of  some  great  organ. 

Sibyl,  dressed  in  her  brown,  mountain  costume, 
was  sitting  on  the  boulder,  when  the  artist  said 
softly,  "Look!" 

Lifting  her  eyes,  as  he  pointed,  she  saw  two  but- 
terflies— it  might  almost  have  been  the  same  two — 
entering  with  zigzag  flight,  through  the  opening  in 
the  draperies  of  virgin' s-bower.  With  parted  lips  and 
flushed  cheeks,  the  girl  watched.  Then — as  the 
beautiful  creatures,  in  their  aerial  waltz,  whirled 
above  her  he\d — she  rose,  and  lightly,  gracefully, — 
almost  as  her  winged  companions, — accompanied 
them  in  their  dance. 

The  winged  emblems  of  innocence  and  purity  flit- 
ted away  over  the  willow  wall.  The  girl,  with  bright 
eyes  and  smiling  lips — half  laughing,  half  serious — 
looked  toward  her  mate.  He  held  out  his  arms  and 
she  went  to  him. 

THE     END 
464 


t/J 


^TS 


fat, 


